


Many Returns

by ChocolatteKitty_Kat



Series: Knights of the Round Table [4]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-22 14:34:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 64,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17664491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatteKitty_Kat/pseuds/ChocolatteKitty_Kat
Summary: Knights of the Round Table, a King Arthur fan fiction, Part 3. Begins 4-4.5 years after the film. Some unexpected travelers show up in Britain and Arthur leads the knights on a journey. Meanwhile, Guinevere deals with trouble in Albion. Sequel to Meeting and Reunion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are two storylines that this work follows. The characters separate after chapter 3: chapters 4-12 follow Guinevere, Cymbeline, and the new knights in Britain, while chapters 13-20 follow Arthur and his knights in Sarmatia. Chapters 1-3 and 21-29 and the Epilogue are shared by all characters.
> 
> Also, fun fact! This was supposed to be the final story in the Knights of the Round Table series. It is not.

 

_ In four years, a lot can happen. In four years, a kingdom can be built. In four years, many children can be born. In four years, a town can grow into a city. In four years, people can fall in love. In four years, an army can form. In four years, a country can find freedom. _

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Through a tunnel of green, four men rode along a worn earthen path. They wore light armor made primarily of thick leather, but embellished with metal scales. Three of the men had very similar armor; light chest pieces covered with the metal scales, as well as leather flaps that hung around their legs. They also wore arm bracers over gloves, and metal greaves over sturdy boots. The fourth man’s armor was noticeably different, based in black leather instead of brown, with brightly polished scales across his chest and shoulders.

The biggest of the men rode a large, black warhorse. Beside him rode the man in black and silver armor; he had taken off his helmet to reveal a short topknot of silky, straight, light brown hair, and piercing grey eyes took in the scenery. Behind them, the smallest man leaned back in the saddle, hands resting on his horse’s rump; brilliantly red hair poked out from under his helmet, which was more of a metal hat, and lent his pale skin a sickly cast. The fourth man’s helmet covered his face, but the end of a thick dark brown braid hung between his shoulders, and deep green eyes surveyed the road around them.

“Look,” the pony-tailed man said, sitting up straight and pointing forwards. The forest was falling away around them, opening into wide, rolling fields. Many of the fields were full of half-grown plants, workers weaving among them and checking the growing crops. In the distance, they could see a massive wall, stretching out as far as they could see to either side. The road they were on curved through the fields, meandering towards a walled town tucked against the wall. The town had crept out from within its walls; there were quite a few buildings that had been built between the walls and the fields outside of them.

“Is that it?” the braided man asked.

“It must be,” came the reply from the man astride the black warhorse. “It’s the only city we’ve come across, and it’s next to the wall.”

“That’s a city?” the redhead scoffed. “I didn’t realize that Britain was so small that a village like that would be the capitol.”

“Come on,” their leader laughed, shaking his head and spurring his horse along the road.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Arthur looked around the great round table at which his knights were seated. To the king’s sorry, many of the seats were still empty, although a few had been filled once again. Of the original twenty-seven knights who had sat at this table, only three remained: Bors, Gawain, and Galahad. Joining them at the table were several new recruits from the last five years: Kei, a fire-haired, hot-tempered Celtic warrior from the North; Bedivere, a Woad healer and the brother of Lucan; Culhwch, the son of a Welsh noble from the South who had run away with his bride; and Dinadan, an overly-friendly British bard who had shown up in the fort two years earlier and quickly proven himself an able warrior, despite detesting fighting. The final seated knight was Cymbeline, a fierce and wild Woad woman the knights had met years earlier, and the wife of Gawain. Also seated at the table were Guinivere, Arthur’s queen, and Ganis, the head of the guard of the city. Against three of the four walls of the chamber stood a motley collection of knights-in-training: Branwyr, Bors’s oldest daughter, and his next five children: Dagonet, Lancelot, Tyra, Sebille, and Tristan. Also against the walls stood Lucan, a young Woad boy that Dagonet’s namesake had rescued five years earlier, his older cousin Griflet, and Dinadan’s brother Daniel.

In the past four and a half years, Arthur and Guinevere had been relatively successful in uniting the people of Britain. The Woads and Britons hadn’t been too hard to unite, nor had the Celts, Picts, or Welsh. The biggest problem they had encountered was integrating the remaining Romans on the island. Some of these had been welcomed into the fort’s guard, under Ganis’s command, and were begrudgingly accepted by the native citizens. The knights, new and old, showed some of the newfound diversity in the fort: besides the three Sarmatian knights, there were two Woads, a Celt, a Welshman, and a Briton. Arthur himself was half-Roman, Guinevere was another Woad, and Ganis was also Briton. The knights-in-training were all Briton or Woad, and the guard under Ganis’s command was made up of Britons, Woads, and a few Romans.

But beyond the unification in the country and diversity in the city, Arthur was proudest of the equality that had already sprung up under his leadership. He felt that this table was an example of the equality: people from almost every common nationality could be found at this table and against the walls of the chamber, and Arthur had also learned to ignore the Roman bias against women—and quickly, as Guinevere would have none of that, not to mention Cymbeline.

On his left, Ganis finished what he had been saying—a report from the night watch—and Arthur refocused his attention on the meeting. He noticed Lucan and Tristan—at eleven, they were the youngest of the trainees under Cymbeline and Kei—squirming, whether from boredom or discomfort he wasn’t sure. Arthur hid a smile and glanced around the table, making sure that no-one had anything else to bring up, then stood and called the meeting to a close.

Gawain stood and stretched, stiff and impatient from sitting still for so long.

“Is it just me, or was that especially boring?” Galahad grumbled from the other side of Cymbeline, who sat between the two men.

“Just you,” the girl shrugged, shaking her long curls.

Galahad rolled his eyes, then made his way out of the chamber. Gawain and Cymbeline followed him and the rest of the knights out through the villa and into the cool, damp spring air. “Let’s go, pebbles,” Kei bellowed, chasing the straggling knights-in-training out of Arthur and Guinevere’s seat of government. “We’ve got two hours’ worth o’ work to do in less than one, so get moving!”

The teenagers jumped into action, jogging along behind Kei in the direction of the training fields. “I’m off as well,” Cymbeline laughed, moving to follow the odd little group.

Gawain nodded after her in farewell, then headed for the stables with Galahad. The two had patrol, Gawain with Dinadan and Galahad with Culhwch. They found the newer knights already at the stables and preparing their horses, and followed suit.

“Stay safe!” Galahad called as he and Culhwch headed out of the stables with their horses.

Gawain grunted an acknowledgement as he tightened the girth straps on his horse’s saddle. He watched Dinadan move slowly to get his horse ready and sighed. “Bear in mind that we do need to leave on patrol  _ today _ ,” he prompted the Briton.

“Right,” the man nodded. “Almost ready.”

Gawain led his horse out of its stall and into the center arena of the stable, performing a final check of the straps and buckles while he waited for Dinadan.

“Ready,” the younger man called as he led his horse out of its stable.

Gawain nodded and led the way out of the stables. They rode slowly through the city; it was teeming with pedestrians, each on their own business. Outside the gates, they broke into a trot, heading for the wall. Their job for the day was to ride to the next watch point along the wall, checking for evidence of guerrilla parties or rogue Roman soldiers in the forest. Fortunately, the patrol was uneventful, and they soon turned back for the fort. When they returned to the stable, Jols was there and took their horses for them.

“Hello, Jols,” Gawain smiled at the stablemaster.

“Gawain, Dinadan,” the man nodded at them. “I trust your patrol was uneventful?”

“Fortunately,” Gawain nodded. “Are Galahad and Culhwch back yet?”

“No,” Jols shook his head, handing off the horses’ reigns to a stable boy.

“Thank you,” Gawain smiled. Dinadan had disappeared during the short exchange, not to Gawain’s surprise, and he headed for the training grounds. Cymbeline and Kei were hard at work with the trainees, having returned from a chore break. In addition to weapons training, the teenagers learned how to care for their weapons and horses, and did some other work around the city and in the armory. Lucan was apprenticed as a healer to Bedivere, and spent most of his free time in the infirmary, while Branwyr, Lancelot, and Tyra were learning how to make bows and arrows.

Gawain found Bedivere also watching the training. Cymbeline was taking the youngest of the trainees—Tyra, Sebille, Tristan, and Lucan—through simple drills, while Kei was supervising sparring bouts between the older teens—Branwyr, Daniel, Dagonet, Lancelot, and Griflet.

“Watch this,” Bedivere nodded towards the bout Kei was setting up, between Branwyr and Dagonet. The match looked entirely unfair: Branwyr was small and slender, while Dagonet was brawny, built like his father. However, Gawain and Bedivere both knew that Branwyr had done a great deal of extra training with Cymbeline to compensate for her smaller size and lower level of strength in comparison to the boys.

Kei signaled the start of the bout, and Dagonet charged straight for his older sister, bellowing loudly. Branwyr easily dodged the charge and swung the flat of her training sword to smack the small of Dagonet’s back.

“They try that on her every time, and every time she dodges,” Bedivere chuckled and shook his head.

They watched as Dagonet turned to face Branwyr again, brandishing his sword. She swung hers around into a reverse grip and dropped into a crouch, waiting for his next move. Instead of charging her again, Dagonet began to circle her slowly, rotating his wrist to swing his sword in circles. He had done a three-quarter rotation around her when she jumped into action; her training sword flashed towards his wrist and there was a sharp  _ smack _ as it hit his flesh. Dagonet yelped and dropped his sword, and the next thing anyone knew, the tip of Branwyr’s sword was resting against his collarbone.

“Done!” Kei called. “Good job, Bran. Dag, we need to work on your technique.”

“What’s wrong with my technique?” the boy grumbled.

“You’re too predictable,” Kei shook his head

“He’s right,” Dinadan observed, materializing at Gawain’s elbow. It took everything the bronze-haired knight had not to jump at the sound.

“Hello!” a voice called from behind them. The three knights turned to find a young man, dressed in light armor and leading a hulking black warhorse, standing behind them. Behind him were three more men, each astride their own horse and also wearing light armor.

“Hello,” Dinadan replied cheerfully. “Who are you?”

“I’m looking for someone,” the man explained.

“Aren’t we all?” Dinadan teased.

The man frowned and glared at the fair-haired bard. Gawain laughed and shook his head; turning, he began to walk away.

“I’m searching for a brother whom I no longer know,” the boy called after the knights. “I don’t remember his face or anything about him, save his name. A name I have struggled and fought every day for nearly twenty years to remember.”

Gawain, who had frozen at the man’s call, turned slowly to face him. His breath caught in his throat as the man removed his helmet. Bright sunlight, so rare in Britain, glinted off bronze curls so like Gawain’s as deep blue eyes met their match in the knight’s own. The held breath left the Gawain’s lungs in a rush, accompanied by a whispered name so long unuttered by the knight: “Aggravaine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on pronunciation: I decided to stick with the Welsh spelling of Culhwch's name, which is extremely confusing to look at if you don't know Welsh. It's pronounced CULL-uck, kind of. An alternative spelling is Culloch, if that helps. If you'd like to hear it pronounced, check out the song "Culhwch and Olwen" by Heather Dale on YouTube. It's wonderful. If you have any other questions about names/spellings/pronunciations, feel free to ask! I love talking about that sort of thing (which is why I'm a linguistics major...) Also, for the most part I'll be referring to Aggravaine as Grav. I actually start doing that a few paragraphs in to this chapter. Just so you know.

Gawain leaned against the back wall of the tavern. Aggravaine and his companions—Lamorak, dark haired with a heavy and disheveled braid; Ewan, with fire-colored hair and pale skin; and Galeschin, with a short topknot of wispy fair hair—ate hungrily at one of the tables. Dinadan had left to fetch Arthur and Bedivere for the infirmary, leaving the newcomers with Gawain and Vanora; the latter had left also to tend one or more of her many children. When Arthur’s shadow darkened the doorway, Gawain leapt forward and strode to meet the king.

“Who are they?” Arthur asked without prelude, surveying the eating men.

“Sarmatian, to be sure,” Gawain replied. “They say they’re searching for brothers.” Unbidden, his eyes strayed to Aggravaine. “Arthur, they won’t find them. You knew Bors’s brother and how he died, and Galahad had no siblings. One of my brothers is there, but the other three…” he shook his head.

Arthur nodded woefully. He clapped Gawain on the shoulder and moved to stand at the head of the men’s table.

Aggravaine leapt to his feet and bowed to Arthur; the other three followed suit. “Sir,” Aggravaine saluted.

“Sit,” Arthur smiled graciously. He pulled a chair up to the head of the table and sat; Gawain leaned against a neighboring table. “I am Arthur, king of Albion,” he named the province. “Tell me, what brings you here?”

“I am Aggravaine,” Grav said, “and this is Galeschin, Ewan, Lamorak. We are from Sarmatia, but were taken ten years ago to serve in the Roman garrison in Gaul. A few weeks ago, we were released almost five years early from our service. We had heard of the great Arthur and his knights and decided to come here before going home to Sarmatia. See, about ten years before we were taken, each of us had an older brother who was taken by the Romans. We heard that around that time, a garrison of Sarmatian knights arrived in Britain, and hoped that we might be able to find word of our brothers to take home to our families.”

Arthur nodded. “I understand. We will do what we can; what were your brothers’ names?”

The men traded uncertain glances. “Mine was Cynan,” Ewan said finally.

“Cynan fell nine years ago,” Arthur said softly meeting Ewan’s watery blue eyes. “We were ambushed on the road, and he died defending innocent travelers from the attack.”

There was a pause, then Lamorak spoke: “My brother’s name was Tor.”

“Tor fell”—

“Tor fell five years after he arrived here,” Gawain interrupted. “He fell defending a young knight in the boy’s first battle.”

“And Lancelot? Is he dead as well?” Galeschin asked.

Arthur’s mouth went dry and his throat closed. “Lancelot is dead,” he managed finally. “He died nearly five years ago. He should have lived—made it home, even—but he turned back to fight for those who could not defend themselves.”

“He died fighting for those he loved,” Gawain added.

Galeschin nodded and bowed his head. A long silence followed, and was finally broken by Grav: “What of my brother? What of Gawain? How did he fall?”

Arthur glanced sharply at Gawain, but saw only a flash of worn cloth and bronze hair as the knight made for the door.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain sat on the wall overlooking the town, one leg drawn up to his chest, the other idly kicking the wall as he watched over the fort. He made no move as he was joined at his perch. Grav faced the opposite direction from his brother, looking out over the fields.

“Gawain did not fall, but sometimes wishes he had,” Grav said softly. Gawain looked at his brother, resting his cheek on his knee. “Cymbeline told me where to find you. She seems nice.”

“When she wants to be,” Gawain replied. “Usually she’s vicious.” He stared openly at the young man beside him. Grav’s hair was short, just long enough to cover his ears rather than tickling his elbows, and his curls were tighter than Gawain’s. Grav was clean shaven, showing full cheeks and a firm jaw. His wide blue eyes were brighter than Gawain’s, more full of life. “Now that you’ve found us, what will you do?”

“Go back to Sarmatia,” Grav replied as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“We won’t go with you,” Gawain said.

“I didn’t really expect you to,” Grav replied. “Not after I met King Arthur, and especially not after Cymbeline.”

Gawain nodded and turned to look over the city. “You should tell our parents I died,” he said. “It will be easier than trying to explain why I’ll never return.”

“I’d just be telling Mother,” Grav said. “Father died a few years after the Romans took you.”

Gawain started and looked at his younger brother. “How?”

“He fell ill,” Grav shrugged. “Lamorak’s mother died the same winter. Mother married Pellinore a year later.”

Gawain nodded again and turned back to the city. “Gaheris?”

“He was fine when I left,” Grav replied. “I hope the Romans didn’t take him. They tried to when they took us. He’s only a year younger than Lamorak, after all, so he was twelve then.”

“Older than I was,” Gawain mused.

“Mother begged the Romans not to take another of her sons, and they let him stay,” Grav continued. “We have another brother, too. Gareth. He was born two years after you left. Lamorak has two more brothers, Aglovale and Percival. Aglovale is a year older than Gareth, and Percival was born the winter father died.”

“How do you remember all that?” Gawain asked.

Grav shrugged. “I just do.”

“When are you going to head back to Sarmatia?” Gawain asked.

Grav paused. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I want to go, but… it’s so far away.”

“You’ll be welcome here until you decide to leave,” Gawain said.

“Thanks,” Grav smiled. He turned to look at his older brother for the first time. “Thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

A month after Grav, Lamorak, Galeschin, and Ewan had arrived in Britain, they still had not left. They had initially planned to only stay a few days at most, but kept finding excuses to stay, most due to the pleasant community they found in the knights and their families.

One night after more than a few drinks in Vanora’s tavern, Grav found himself taking in the busyness around him, and discovered that he did not, in fact, want to leave. Immediately after that realization, he felt guilty. However, over the next few days, the desire to stay continued to grow and the desire to leave diminished accordingly. Gawain found him perched on the wall overlooking the city in the same place they had held their first conversation.

“What’s wrong?” Gawain asked.

“Nothing,” Grav replied. This was met with silence from Gawain that somehow managed to exude doubt. “How do you do that?”

“What?” Gawain asked.

“Read people,” Grav replied.

“I thought nothing was wrong.”

“No, nothing’s wrong.”

“So what’s wrong?”

Grav sighed. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Britain?”

“No, I don’t want to leave Britain.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s the problem?”

Grav gave Gawain an odd look. “What do you mean ‘what’s the problem’? I have to go home.”

“But why? Why do you feel like returning to Sarmatia is what you  _ have _ to do? Because you were born there?”

“Because I need to tell my—our family that I survived. I made it through forced service by the Romans.”

Gawain was silent. Finally, he shrugged. “So go back? What’s keeping you here?”

“Nothing,” Grav said immediately. A moment later, he added: “Everything.”

“Well, that’s contradictory.”

“It’s just… I like it here. I like the people; Cymbeline, Bedivere, Kei, Vanora and Bors and their children, Galahad, Arthur…”

“Right.”

“And I’m afraid that if I go home, I won’t like it.”

“Then stay.”

“But I also feel obligated to go home. I can’t just let Mother believe I died while I stay here, alive.”

“So go home and tell her you’re alive, then come back.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because… I don’t know. I just can’t. How is everything so clear to you?”

Gawain paused. “I don’t know. I wrestled with the same things four years ago, when our contract to Rome ended. I guess I’ve had more time to think them through and decide about them.”

Grav sighed. They sat in silence for a moment before Gawain spoke again: “Why couldn’t you return to Sarmatia and come back here?”

Grav was quiet. “I’m not sure. I suppose that feels like I would go back to tell Mother that I lived, then abandon her again. And in that case, what would be the point in going?”

Gawain shrugged. “Maybe you’d decide you actually like Sarmatia better than Britain.” He glared up at looming storm clouds. “The weather’s probably better there, for one.”

“Even Gaul has better weather than Britain,” Grav laughed. He paused, and then continued: “And I don’t know if I want to find that I like Sarmatia best.”

Gawain sighed. “I can’t tell you what to do; you have to make that decision yourself.”

Grav sighed and nodded. “I know. I’ve talked to Lamorak and Galeschin and Ewan, and they are all at the same place that I am; they can’t decide whether to stay or go back.”

“What is the main reason you have for going back to Sarmatia?” Gawain asked.

Grav thought for a moment. “To see our family again. To  _ have _ a family again.”

“You could ask them to come here with you. Arthur would give them refuge.”

“Right, and how would I convince them to do that?”

“Well, for one, it’s safer,” Gawain said. “There’s no Roman presence, so no conscription.” He paused. “That’s about it.”

Grav laughed. “You won’t leave Britain but you can’t think of anything else good to say about it?”

“Well, my other reasons to stay are personal: Cymbeline, Arthur, and even Galahad and Bors and Vanora and the children. I mean, mostly Cymbeline. But all of them and more.”

“Cymbeline wouldn’t come to Sarmatia if you wanted to go home?”

“She would, probably,” Gawain shrugged. “She wouldn’t be very happy about it, but she probably would. But that’s not even relevant, because Sarmatia isn’t home to me anymore. It’s just the place where I was born and lived for a little while. Britain is where I grew up, and learned just about everything I know, and have spent my entire life. My family is here; sure, my family by birth is in Sarmatia, but my real family are the people I just mentioned. I could leave this island, but I could never leave them.”

Grav nodded and was silent for a while. “That doesn’t really help me.”

“Right,” Gawain chuckled. “I think you just have to figure out where your family is, or who you want your family to be. And if you have to go to Sarmatia to make that decision, then go back to Sarmatia. Otherwise, you’re welcome to stay.”

Grav nodded again. “Where did you get so wise?”

“I think I just spend too much time with Bedivere.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

After his conversation with Gawain, Grav told his companions what Gawain had told him and they made their decision. Three days later found them getting ready to leave for Sarmatia. The sun had hardly risen when they stood in the courtyard of the villa, saddled and laden horses behind them, saying goodbye to their new friends.

“You’re sure about this?” Cymbeline teased, prodding Grav. “Sarmatia is a long way to travel to just decide to turn around and come back.”

“I am,” Grav nodded. His companions demonstrated their agreement. “Hopefully we’ll see you again.”

“I hope so,” Cymbeline smiled, “but I also hope you find where you belong.”

“Thank you,” Grav grinned. He accepted a brief hug from the girl. “I was hoping to say goodbye to Gawain.”

“He’ll be here,” Cymbeline reassured him. “Bors and Galahad as well.”

“Why did Arthur want us to come here before we left?” Galeschin appeared beside Grav.

“You’ll see,” Cymbeline shrugged.

“Thanks,” Galeschin rolled his eyes.

“You all have enough food for your journey?” Vanora worried around the four men.

“We have plenty of food,” Galeschin reassured her. “Thank you so much.”

“Van, they’ll be fine,” Cymbeline added.

“Thank you, Vanora,” Ewan laughed.

“Yes, thank you,” Grav grinned. “You’ve been so kind to us since we got here. We really appreciate it.”

Vanora smiled at the men and nodded. “I have to get to work. Stay safe on your travels.”

“Thank you,” Grav repeated. The other men echoed, and Vanora offered them a final smile before turning and leaving.

Guinevere was next. “You may have only been here for a short time, but we have enjoyed your presence in the fort. Should you decide to return, you will certainly be welcome.”

“Thank you,” Grav bowed.

Bedivere sidled up beside Cymbeline. He handed them each a small bundle, and then passed a second one to Ewan. “Some emergency herbs, bandages, and so on. But try not to get hurt.” Ewan held up the second bundle, and Bedivere nodded. “Ginger. It should help with your sickness. Chew some of the root, or steep a bit of it in hot water. But you probably won’t have hot water on the ship. So just stick to chewing it.”

“Thank you,” Ewan laughed.

“There should be enough for two trips,” Bedivere added. “In case you do decide to come back. If not, it will help with any nausea, so it can still come in handy.”

Ewan nodded. Grav looked up, checking the sky. He frowned when he saw how much the sun had risen. “We need to go.”

“Just another minute,” Cymbeline glanced out the gate.

“What are we waiting for?” Ewan asked.

Before Cymbeline could answer, the sharp sound of hooves on flagstones rang out in the courtyard and Arthur rode in, followed closely by Gawain, Galahad, and Bors.

“Where are you all going?” Grav asked, eyeing the extra packhorse following Galahad.

“With you,” Gawain replied nonchalantly, dismounting.

“What?”

“I talked to Galahad and Bors after I talked to you, and we decided that we should take word back to Sarmatia of the others who came to Britain with us,” Gawain explained. “There were twenty-four others whose families don’t know what happened to them. We owe it to them to tell them.”

“And I’m going along because they fell under my command,” Arthur added. “It is only right.”

“Are you sure?” Grav asked, surprised by the revelation.

Gawain glanced at Cymbeline. “Definitely.”


	4. Chapter 4

Cymbeline stood on the wall above the gate and watched Arthur lead the group into the forest beyond the fields. Guinevere stood beside her. “They’ll come back,” the queen reassured the knight.

“I know,” Cymbeline nodded, wrapping her arms around her waist.

Guinevere glanced at her friend. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried for them,” Cymbeline laughed. She smiled up at the queen—who was several inches taller than her—and changed the subject. “Anyways, I’m not the one who has to rule Albion while the king is gone.”

Guinevere laughed. “Don’t fool yourself. I will probably be asking you for more than a little advice until they return.”

Cymbeline laughed and turned back to the city as Galahad, the last in the group of riders, vanished into the trees. “Let’s go. I’ve knights to train; you’ve farmers’ disputes to settle. We’ve got to keep this place running and safe until Arthur and the knights return or there won’t be anywhere for them to return to.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

A month and a half had passed since Arthur and the knights had departed for Sarmatia. Now summer was in full swing. The crops outside the fort walls were growing tall, most of the tavern’s business had moved outside to the open-sided pavilion along the street, and three of the trainees—Branwyr, Daniel, and Dagonet—had been dubbed full-fledged knights by the queen to help cover for the absent knights.

In the tavern, Vanora groaned and straightened up, pressing a hand in the small of her back. “Are you alright?” Olwyn, Culhwch’s wife, appeared by her side, hovering nervously.

“Dear God, girl, I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” Vanora grumbled. She rested a hand on the growing bump of her stomach.

“I can’t believe Bors would leave you here alone, for who knows how long, and pregnant with his child,” Olwyn shook her head.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve never done this before,” Vanora retorted.

“Twelve times before,” Cymbeline added from halfway across the tavern.

“Ten,” Vanora corrected. “I have twelve children, but I’ve only been pregnant ten times, because there are two sets of twins.”

“Right,” Cymbeline nodded. “I didn’t think of that.”

“But still,” Olwyn protested. “If I were pregnant and Culhwch abandoned me, I’d not be too happy with him. Even if I  _ had _ been pregnant ten times before. Which I honestly hope I’m not, no offense Vanora.”

“None taken,” the woman shrugged.

“Hey!” Sebille piped up from the corner.

“The only good thing to come from pregnancy is the child,” Vanora said. “The entire experience is uncomfortable and unpleasant, and I certainly never wanted to go through it eleven times—or even twice. That said, I am so happy with all of my children, even if I never sleep because of them.”

Sebille rolled her eyes but accepted her mother’s response. “Fair enough.”

“You’ll understand exactly what I mean when you get married and start having children of your own,” Vanora replied.

“For now, aren’t you supposed to be training with Kei?” Cymbeline piped up.

“No,” Sebille replied. “Definitely not.” She grabbed her dagger from the table beside her and left the inn.

“I told him to go,” Vanora said, turning to Olwyn. “Bors. I told him that he should go with the others. He very nearly stayed. We spent the entire night talking before he finally decided.”

“What made him leave?” Olwyn asked.

“His loyalty to Arthur, I think,” Vanora replied. “Bors is loyal to me and our children above everything, but there are many times that I’m nearly convinced his loyalty to Arthur outranks even us. But I do think it’s best that he went along; if they encounter trouble, every hand could be needed.”

“And Bors will probably be enough to make anyone that might give them trouble think twice,” Cymbeline laughed.

“Any of them should be enough for that,” Olwyn laughed.

“Did he know?” Cymbeline asked. “Bors; did he know that you were pregnant? I know you told us, but had you told him?”

“I told him before we began our discussion,” Vanora nodded. “I wanted him to know. He had guessed anyways; after ten times, he’s gotten good at knowing without me saying.”

The other girls laughed. Olwyn, finally accepting Vanora’s answer, headed for the kitchen. Cymbeline sat down on the bench across from Vanora. “What’s wrong?” Vanora asked.

“I never said anything was wrong,” Cymbeline shrugged. “I just wanted to talk to you. We haven’t had much time lately.”

Vanora arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been helping around here more than you have since Arthur made you a knight. We’ve talked more than we have in years.”

“Right,” Cymbeline nodded. She looked down at her hands, folded on the table, and twiddled her thumbs.

Vanora sighed. “You have a minute to tell me what’s wrong or I’m going to go back to work.”

“I’m pregnant,” Cymbeline blurted.

“Well, I knew that,” Vanora shrugged.

“You did?”

“This is my eleventh time, and I’ve known many other women who have children. It’s quite obvious.”

“Oh,” Cymbeline slouched.

“I assumed that you were spending so much time here because you are worried about how your duties as a knight will affect the baby,” Vanora continued. “I have also assumed that you have yet to tell anyone about this.”

“Yes,” Cymbeline nodded. “You’re the first.”

“You need to tell Kei. He is the one that you work with the most, and he should know,” Vanora said. Cymbeline opened her mouth to reply, but Vanora continued. “You should also tell Bedivere. He’s a healer, and may have advice for you. And you should tell Guinevere. She needs to know that soon you will be unable to perform any of your duties as a knight.”

Cymbeline sighed. “I know. I just… I don’t know. It feels strange. And I don’t really know how to tell anyone. It’s different with you, but the others…”

Vanora nodded understandingly. “You’ll get more comfortable with it.” She eyed the girl up. “I’m surprised Gawain left knowing that you are pregnant. Bors had a hard enough time deciding. He wouldn’t have gone if this were our first child.” She paused. “Well, he might have. We weren’t particularly close when we had our first child. But never mind.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Cymbeline turned red and stared intently at her hands.

“Gawain?”

“Yes,” Cymbeline looked up, eyes full of tears. “I didn’t want it to affect his decision to leave or stay, and I thought it was important that he go, for many reasons. He would have stayed if he knew. I couldn’t be, and I couldn’t let our child be, the reason he never saw his family again or gave them a proper goodbye.”

Vanora nodded. “He will be more than a little upset with you when he gets back.”


	5. Chapter 5

By the six time months had passed, word of Arthur’s departure had spread throughout Britain, and the citizens of the island were less than happy. There were quite a few who had been opposed to the idea of a king at all, much less a half-Roman one. Rumors ran rampant, people guessing that Arthur had run off to rejoin the Romans or make an alliance with them, despite Guinevere’s insistence that he was going to Sarmatia with his knights. Of course, few of the people on the island had ever even heard of Sarmatia. Those who had didn’t know where it was or that its people were just as resistant to the Romans as they were.

Since the knights had left, summer had come and gone, and autumn was nearly over. Cymbeline knew that the ships would stop for the winter soon, if they hadn’t already, and spent most of her time praying that this would be the day that Gawain returned with the others. Each day, her prayers were left unanswered, and she began to resign herself to the fact that not only would she be giving birth on her own, she was unlikely to see her husband again before the next spring.

Vanora had given birth a month earlier, to a beautiful and healthy baby girl that she named Jennie. Cymbeline was due any day, and terrified of that fact. And they weren’t alone—three months earlier, Guinevere had come to them and Olwyn, fearful that she was also pregnant. Another month had passed before she was sure, meaning that Arthur would also return to find himself a father again.

Cymbeline was decidedly uncomfortable. Her stomach had stretched farther than she ever thought possible—she was huge! She was positive that she was bigger than Vanora had ever been, but the older woman insisted that was just due to the fact that Cymbeline was significantly smaller than her in both height and stature. Once she had told Vanora about her pregnancy, Guinevere and the other knights had been informed as well, and Bedivere had immediately forbidden her from patrols and spars, and only reluctantly allowed her to supervise training for another month and a half. After that, she had been relegated to the tavern, where she helped Vanora as much as she could until she began to find her stomach to unwieldy to allow her to do much to help.

Cymbeline stood on the wall, looking south over the fields, towards the forest. She didn’t really expect to see her husband or the other knights, but she kept hoping and watching anyways. She drew her cloak more tightly around herself as the sun began to set to her right, coloring the sky beautifully.

Suddenly she gasped sharply, leaning forward and catching herself against the wall with one hand, the other flying to her stomach. The nearest guard on the wall rushed to her side worriedly. “Are you alright?” he supported her to take a seat on the low lip of the back of the wall.

“I’m not sure,” Cymbeline gasped, another sharp pain shooting through her. “I think I need to get to the infirmary.”

“I’ll take you,” the young sentry helped her up. “Melor!” he called to the next sentry. “I’ll be back soon!”

The other man nodded and waved, moving closer to their section of the wall to cover for Cymbeline’s escort.

Somehow, the duo managed to move rather quickly through the fort to the infirmary, where they found Bedivere teaching Lucan how to stitch a knife wound—on Griflet, the most notoriously clumsy of the knights in training. As soon as they burst through the door, Bedivere jumped into action, directing them to a small room to the side of the infirmary’s main room. This area was dedicated to surgeries and childbirths, although many of the latter events took place in the homes of the mother.

“Lucan! Go fetch Vanora,” Bedivere called to his brother. The sandy-haired boy nodded, dropping the needle he was using to stitch up Griflet and flying out the door. “Thank you, Jodoc. You can go.” Bedivere told the sentry; he nodded and was gone in seconds. “Lean back,” Bedivere soothed Cymbeline as he helped her get comfortable on the table in the operating room. “Try to relax.”

“Right,” Cymbeline grunted. “That’s likely.”

“Deep breaths,” Bedivere encouraged. “Count them out to four—breathe in for four beats, and out for another four. Keep going like that.”

Cymbeline began to take a deep breath, then grunted and gasped as another contraction hit her. “Try not to do that,” Bedivere said unhelpfully.

“Don’t make me stab you,” Cymbeline groaned.

Bedivere laughed. “Griflet!” he called into the other room. “Can you please bring us a pillow? Try not to bleed on it.”

The teenager appeared in the doorway, bearing a pillow, which he handed to Bedivere. The Woad healer propped Cymbeline up on the pillow, helping to make her slightly more comfortable on the table. “Is that better?”

“Not really,” Cymbeline replied.

Bedivere ignored her, fussing around to get her settled while they waited for Vanora. Fortunately, the older woman was not long in coming; she burst through the door of the infirmary in a whirl of skirts and cloak, followed closely by Branwyr. “How is it going?” she asked.

Cymbeline opened her mouth to retort, but cried out as another contraction washed through her body.

“I see,” Vanora smiled. “Hopefully, this will be a quick labor.”

“That would be good,” Cymbeline murmured weakly.

Vanora laughed and peered under Cymbeline’s skirts. “How long has this been going?”

“Under an hour?” Cymbeline guessed.

“It’s going to be a quick labor,” Vanora reassured her.

“How can you tell?” Cymbeline asked, grimacing in pain.

“You’re almost ready to start pushing the baby out,” Vanora replied matter-of-factly. She turned to Bedivere. “How many births have you assisted with?”

“Several,” the healer replied. “A few back in my village when I was younger. My mother was a midwife even before she was a healer. She taught me everything she knew about both practices. Although, it has been a while since I was present for a birth.”

“Good,” Vanora nodded. “You’ll know what’s going on. I’ve brought Branwyr to help as well.” She nodded towards the girl in the doorway.

Cymbeline started as she felt a pop between her legs, then warm liquid began to pool on the table under her. “What’s happening?”

“That’s completely normal,” Vanora assured her.

“It feels disgusting,” Cymbeline grumbled.

Vanora laughed and rubbed Cymbeline’s knee. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Despite Vanora’s promise of a quick labor, it was well into the morning before Cymbeline’s first child was actually born. Yes, first—and by the morning, all of her complaints about the size of her belly were explained. The exhausted young knight gave birth to triplets—two boys and a girl.

That morning, the sun rose, peeping through the windows to greet the three new lives in the room. Bedivere carried Cymbeline into the next room, settling her on a bed so that she could rest, while Vanora checked on the babies. One by one, they brought the newborns to their exhausted mother, who greeted them joyfully.

“How have you done this so many times, Van?” Cymbeline mumbled, half asleep, looking at the flame-haired woman seated on the bed beside her.

Vanora thought for a moment. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I just do. I mean, I have to.”

Cymbeline laughed softly. “I guess you’re right.”

Vanora smiled and smoothed the hair off of the young woman’s forehead. Across the room, Branwyr and Bedivere had also fallen asleep in two of the other beds. The babies were sleeping soundly, wrapped securely in small, soft blankets and settled into baskets in lieu of cradles. The infirmary was, almost impossibly, peaceful. The surgery was cleaned, to an extent, and, with the exception of the sleeping occupants, the main room was untouched by the messy nativity scene of the night before.


	6. Chapter 6

As the winter grew colder, the unrest in Albion grew hotter. Raids became more and more frequent; small parties of Woads would appear in the middle of the night, screaming and burning as they ran through the darkness. They killed, looted, and destroyed, turning towns into pyres before they left. The roads grew dangerous as these same Woads began to attack travelers, killing or maiming them and taking their possessions.

The knights of the round table were kept busy; they patrolled constantly, escorting travelers when they crossed paths and attempting to hunt down the raiding Woad parties. Branwyr, Dagonet, and Daniel graduated to full-fledged knights and were given seats at the table—not that the almost-daily meetings around the table took place anymore, as the knights were too busy. Guinevere gave birth to her second son shortly after midwinter, adding to the collection of temporarily fatherless children that spent their days in the main room of Vanora’s tavern for lack of a better place to go; these children included Vanora’s brood of thirteen, Cymbeline’s triplets, and the older of Guinevere’s two sons, Amr.

Once her children were about four months old, Cymbeline rejoined the activities of the other knights. She went on short patrols, and took over the training of the six youngest potential knights, allowing Kei to spend more time outside the walls hunting the Woads. The hero of the British rebels was a warrior named Ysbadaddon. His reputation was terrifying, and he used that to his advantage.

“Good morning,” Guinevere greeted the knights around the table. The weary warriors stared dully at the queen, who looked just about as exhausted as they did, with her newborn cradled in her arms.

“We have news of Ysbadaddon,” Kei said. “There are rumors that he has joined with Morgana, a Celtic witch. The rumors say that the two of them have terrorized much of the territory above the wall, subjecting the villages to their tyranny.”

“The real question is why,” Cymbeline piped up. “Why are they doing this? What do they want?”

“They say they want Arthur deposed if—I mean, when he returns,” Kei replied, flushing at the slip-up.

“That’s not going to happen,” Guinevere shook her head.

“It could very well happen, if they get enough support,” Bedivere replied. “We don’t want to think of it, but more and more villages are moving to support Ysbadaddon, as are the local governors. The last one holding out above the wall is your father, Leodegrance, in Camellaird.”

Guinevere sighed. “We must support him, then. We cannot allow Ysbadaddon to take Camellaird.”

“We have neither the means or the method to support him,” Cymbeline replied. “We hardly have enough warriors to defend this fort, much less another. Nearly a third of Ganis’s guard has fallen fighting the Woads here, and we only have four knights who could go on such a mission. And they’re needed here; if the knights left the fort, the Woads would undoubtedly attack it.”

“Not to mention what it would probably do to the morale of the fort,” Dinadan piped up. “People are scared. They don’t feel safe. If we sent fighters, especially a significant number of knights, to the north, I doubt they would handle it well.”

Guinevere frowned at the information, but Bedivere interrupted before she could speak: “We should continue to monitor the situation in the north as best we can. If things escalate, or if Ysbadaddon takes Camellaird, we will have to revisit the idea of sending a party to the north.”

Guinevere nodded reluctantly, accepting the young healer’s advice. “Alright. For now, that is what we’ll do.”

And so, as the winter snow fell heavy on Britain, the knights settled in for the winter and waited.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Very little information reached the fort from the north, and much of it was so long outdated that it was useless to the knights. The first piece of useful information came directly from a messenger of Ysbadaddon and Morgana, who arrived in the month after midwinter. Guinevere received him in the courtyard of the villa. She stood in the doorway of the house, wind whipping at her hair, cloak, and dress. Bedivere stood to one side, looking menacing thanks to his sturdy and muscular stature, while Kei stood to the other, glowering at the haughty messenger. Cymbeline slipped into the courtyard with Branwyr and Dagonet to watch the exchange.

“You are the Woad queen, wife of Arthur Castus?” the messenger eyed Guinevere dubiously.

“I am Guinevere,” the queen replied. Cymbeline had to admit that despite any shortcomings the queen might have, she could certainly play a part well.

“I am a messenger of the great Ysbadaddon, hero of the Woad people!” the messenger cried. “I come bearing a message from my lord.”

“Well, we’re just dying to hear it,” Kei grumbled.

The messenger shot Kei a vicious glare and whipped a bloody sack out from under his heavy cloak. Cymbeline’s hand flew to her knife and she felt Branwyr move beside her as the messenger lifted the sack aloft. “Ysbadaddon wishes to inform the Woad queen that she has failed her people! This is a warning: if she does not concede to him, she will not live to see her husband’s return!”

The next few moments were a blur of action. The messenger flung the bag towards Guinevere’s feet, and Bedivere pushed the queen into the house. Kei jumped in front of them both, drawing his sword. Cymbeline leapt for the messenger, tackling him hard, a knife in hand. She straddled him on the ground, one of his wrists under her foot and the other clasped in her own hand; one of her knives was in hand and pressed against the man’s throat. Seconds later, Branwyr and Dagonet were at her sides; they grabbed the man’s arms and hauled him to his feet once Cymbeline slipped off of his back.

Crossly, Guinevere pushed past Bedivere and Kei, staring curiously at the sack. Cymbeline moved to open it, shaking its contents out: a head, topped with dirty, tangled, dark hair dropped to the flagstones, bouncing slightly and rolling until it stopped on the severed neck. Guinevere gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth; the head belonged to Merlin, her old friend and the ambassador between the northern Woads and Arthur’s court.

Guinevere stared furiously at the man behind Cymbeline. “Kill him.”

Cymbeline raised her knife and turned in one fluid motion, slicing the sharp blade across the man’s neck. He slumped between Branwyr and Dagonet as brilliant red blood spurted from the cut in his neck, flowing down his chest and stomach to drip on the ground.

Guinevere looked at the assembled townspeople and guards outside and around the courtyard. “This man came bearing a message and a threat to me, and to all of us! He said that if we did not surrender, he would kill us. He even brought the head of a great man in an attempt to frighten us into submission. Well, this is my response: we will not bow to Ysbadaddon! We will not fall prey to his tyranny, or his threats, or his scare tactics! We are strong, and we will not falter!”


	7. Chapter 7

Cymbeline groaned and dropped down on a bench beside Kei.

“Training is going that well?” the redhead teased, toying with his cup of wine.

“It’s absolutely fantastic,” Cymbeline grumbled. She sighed and leaned back against the wall. “They’re good kids, and they’re picking things up well and quickly, it’s just exhausting trying to keep all six of them in hand.”

“You’re telling me,” Kei teased.

Cymbeline glared at him, and Kei chuckled into his wine. “How are Bran, Daniel, and Dag doing in the field with you?”

“Well enough,” Kei shrugged. “It’s good to have more hands out there. And Bran’s a great scout.”

“That must come in handy, dealing with Woads hiding in the forest,” Cymbeline nodded.

Kei grunted the affirmative. “Even though they’re good fighters and quick learners, we could use our best scrapper out there.”

Cymbeline sighed. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “But I can’t risk that. I can’t risk leaving my children without parents.”

Kei rolled his eyes. “You doubt your own skill?”

“One should never put too much stock in oneself,” Cymbleine replied.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

A month after Ysbadaddon’s messenger brought Merlin’s head to the fort, word reached the knights that the Woads had taken Camellaird, realizing their worst fears.

“We cannot ignore this,” Guinevere looked around the table at the knights. 

Cymbeline shifted in her seat. “What do you want to do? Camellaird is far to the north; too far for us to lead an attack. That would leave the fort exposed, which is almost definitely what Ysbadaddon and Morgana want.”

“But we cannot let them think that they can get away with this,” Culhwch added. “They’ve conquered the entire northern half of the island, and we haven’t done anything. Not only was Leodegrance the final opposition to Ysbadaddon and Morgana’s rule, he is the father of our queen.”

“I agree,” Bedivere said. “Leodegrance is a symbol. If Ysbadaddon and Morgana kill him, there will be no chance of us rallying support against them. If Leodegrance is killed, it would show the queen—and the rest of us—to be weak, and the citizens of Albion will lose faith, and they will not side with us against Ysbadaddon and Morgana if they have no faith in us.”

“Then what do you recommend?” Guinevere was clearly frustrated. “You say that it is impossible to attack Camellaird, but also that we must do something.”

“We could send a small group,” Cymbeline suggested. “Maybe three or four. Half of them go to hold negotiations with Ysbadaddon and Morgana, the others sneak in and work to free Leodegrance and his family.”

Guinevere hesitated. “Three or four knights? There are only eight of you. Twelve, if you count the young ones Cymbeline is training. Four is a significant part of that number.”

“I could increase the patrols and watch shifts of my men,” Ganis suggested. “The knights would only be gone for a few days; we could manage to cover for them.”

Guinevere looked around the table. “Who would we even send? I could not ask this of any of you; it is too dangerous.”

Bedivere shook his head. “Ysbadaddon has honor. He would not kill or harm anyone who came to negotiate a truce.” He paused. “Although he would probably kill us if he caught us trying to free Leodegrance.”

“Beds has a point,” Cymbeline nodded. “The negotiators would be safe. The others not so much, but only if they got caught.”

“But would it be worth it?” Guinevere asked. “I love my father, and my sister, and I want to save them, but would it really be worth risking the lives of three of you?”

“I think it would,” Bedivere replied. “Like I said, Leodegrance is a symbol. A symbol of hope for his people, that Ysbadaddon can actually be opposed. And he would be the first person to survive Ysbadaddon’s imprisonment without turning to his side. I think he would bring hope and faith to the people of Britain.”

Cymbeline nodded in agreement, as did many of the other knights.

“And who would go?” Guinevere challenged. “I cannot ask this of any of you.”

Bedivere caught Cymbeline’s eye from across the table. She groaned inwardly and rubbed her forehead. “We’ll go,” Bedivere said. “Me and Cymbeline.”

“I’ll go as well,” Branwyr piped up. “I’m the best scout here; I can sneak into the prison while Cymbeline and Bedivere negotiate with Ysbadaddon and Morgana.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

“Are we sure this was a good idea?” Cymbeline asked, glancing over her shoulder at the receding line of the great wall.

“Not entirely,” Bedivere replied. He rode beside Cymbeline, while Branwyr road behind, her younger brother Tristan seated behind her on the horse. Tristan was barely eleven years old, only a few months older than Bedivere’s brother Lucan, but they had decided to bring him along to aide Branwyr in her subterfuge. Cymbeline knew if either of the young pair didn’t return with her that Vanora would definitely kill her.

“They’ll be alright,” Bedivere said suddenly.

“Tris and Bran?” Cymbeline asked. “Sure. They’re good kids.”

“No,” Bedivere shook his head. “Well, yes, but I meant your children. They’ll be fine. Vanora will take good care of them.”

“I know,” Cymbeline nodded. “They’ll be fine.”

“And so will we,” Bedivere added.

“And so will we,” Cymbeline echoed.

They rode in silence for a while, Bedivere and Cymbeline side by side with Branwyr and Tristan behind them. Camellaird was nearly a week’s travel from the great wall, a journey which none of them was looking forward to. The constant threat of Woad ambush was also very present in their minds, setting them all on edge. Tristan had only been training under Cymbeline for about a year, and this was his first trip outside the walls. He clung tightly to Branwyr, watching the forest around them nervously. His vigilance would serve him well, if the past few months dealing with Woad ambushes were any indication of what their journey might entail.

Every morning, the four would rise with the sun and clean up their camp. Tristan rode behind each of them in turns; a day each with Branwyr, Cymbeline, and Bedivere. It was on the third day that they encountered trouble for the first time. The only indication that they were no longer alone was the slightest of rustling in the bushes. Branwyr’s hand was halfway to her bow when the first Woad leapt screaming from the trees to her left.

Bedivere’s horse reared, neighing wildly as it was swarmed by Woads; he grabbed the pommel of his saddle with one hand and Tristan’s arm with the other, narrowly managing to stay seated. As soon as the horse landed back on its front legs, Bedivere’s hand was on his sword. It slid smoothly from its sheath, flashing in the meager winter sunlight that peeped through the bare branches of overhead trees. Bedivere slid off the horse’s back, swinging his sword towards a Woad charging him from the brush. “Tristan, ride ahead!” he called over his shoulder, catching a wild swing of an axe on his sword.

The boy slid forward into the saddle, kicking the horse’s sides so that it shot forward. He didn’t go far; as soon as he was out of immediate reach of the Woads on the road, he halted the horse, pulled out his bow, and sent an arrow flying at a warrior bursting out of the brush. It hit its mark in the man’s neck, and he fell, gurgling and clutching at the arrow; he was dead before he hit the ground.

Cymbeline was pulled from her horse by blue hands, and went down kicking and screaming. A tiny knife appeared in her hand and it found its home in the eye of one of her attacker’s. Another stumbled backwards as her boot slammed into his neck, and a third received a knee to the solar plexus. Cymbeline landed hard on her back on the ground and rolled away from the prancing hooves of her horse. As soon as she was on her feet, a long knife—shining silver with a hilt made of bone and bound with a thin strip of gold—appeared in her right hand. She made eye contact with a brawny, blue-painted warrior and growled at him, spinning the knife expertly in her hand, her eyes never leaving his. This clearly unnerved him and he blinked in surprise. In that split second, Cymbeline launched herself at him, her knife finding home hilt-deep in his chest. He died instantly, eyes open wide with shock.

Branwyr fired off several arrows, each finding its mark in a Woad, before she too was dragged from her horse. She dealt her attacker a stinging blow in the face with her bow, then ducked a swing from a crude sword. She kicked the woman wielding the weapon in the face, breaking her nose, and followed up with a blow from the end of her bow. The strikes sent the woman staggering backwards, straight into Bedivere’s sword. Branwyr turned her attention back to her first opponent, drawing a long knife with her left hand. The man sneered, assuming that her left hand would be weaker. The expression froze on his face as Branwyr’s knife sliced through his neck and she spun to face her next opponent.

The fight was over in minutes, and the knights stood unscathed. Cymbeline and Bedivere calmed the horses while Branwyr hurried to Tristan.

“Are you alright?” she helped her brother down from the horse. He didn’t reply, but doubled over and retched on the road. Branwyr rubbed his back soothingly. She too had thrown up after her first battle.

“Uh-huh,” Tristan straightened up and wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. Branwyr retrieved a waterskin from Bedivere’s horse and handed it to Tristan, who took a grateful drink.

Cymbeline and Bedivere joined the siblings, leading the other two horses. “Are you alright, Tristan?” Cymbeline asked, brushing the back of her fingers over the boy’s forehead before resting her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” Tristan croaked.

“We should get moving,” Bedivere glanced around them as wind ruffled leaves and branches in the forest.

Cymbeline hesitated. “I think we should make camp.”

“We can stop at the next place we see,” Bedivere suggested. “This wouldn’t be a very good campsite. It’s too exposed. And there are dead bodies all over the road.”

Cymbeline relented and they mounted their horses, continuing down the road at a brisk trot. The sun was setting quickly behind distant hills, and the subsequent darkness was accompanied by a dank chill that sunk deep into their bones. By the time they stopped, an hour after sunset in the first clear area they found, they were all shivering.

Tristan was set on the task of building a fire while the others unsaddled the horses and gathered extra firewood. After a meager dinner of jerky, stale bread, and dried fruit, they turned in for the night, Bedivere taking the first watch.

Halfway through the night, Bedivere was beginning to nod off and was ready to wake Cymbeline for her watch when a twig cracked in the underbrush. He was wide awake, on his feet, and brandishing a wickedly-spiked flail by the time the first attacker was out of the brush. He shouted a warning to wake his companions as he swung the flail towards the Woad’s head, smashing it into the trunk of the tree Bedivere had just been leaning against.

Cymbline woke to find a blue-streaked face grinning sickly above her. Cymbeline gasped and rolled aside, narrowly avoiding a heavy dagger bearing down towards her chest. Cymbeline snatched her long, bone-handled knife from its thigh sheath and parried the next blow from her attacker, stumbling backwards as the strength of the blow reverberated through her body. She ducked under the next blow, darting towards her horse, where her heavier weapons were strapped to the saddle. When she reached the horse, she turned and flung her knife towards the Woad who had woken her; it buried nearly hilt-deep in the woman’s chest. Cymbeline drew a pair of short-handled sickles, the inside curve sharpened wickedly and the blades engraved with Celtic knotwork. With the sickles in hand, she moved fluidly and gracefully, easily deflecting blows and slicing at her attackers.

Branwyr dove for Tristan, simultaneously dodging a blow from her own attacker and knocking the boy away from a Woad bearing down on him. She rose quickly, reaching for a dagger on her belt with her right hand and her long knife with her left, wielding them both in a reverse grip as she began to spar with one of the Woads. Tristan stumbled to his feet, ducking under a swing from another Woad. He drew a short sword—just over a foot in length—and brandished it with both hands, staring intently at the Woad facing him, illuminated by bright moonlight.

“Scared, little boy?” she growled.

“I’m not little!” Tristan protested, deflecting a half-hearted blow from his opponent. He swung his sword at her midsection, which she barely blocked, clearly surprised. Determined, Tristan stood his ground, raising his sword again.

“Your first fight, I’m guessing?” the woman grunted, swinging hard towards Tristan, probably hoping to knock him off balance with a hard blow, only to send herself stumbling forwards as he dodged the swing so that her sword met thin air. Tristan’s sword stabbed again towards her midsection, half of it sinking into her stomach. A look of shock came over her face as he pulled his sword out and she crumpled to her hand, dark blood—almost black in the dark but glinting in the moonlight—pooling around her on the ground.


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning, the rising sun lit the dead bodies that littered the clearing and the blood that stained the ground. Bedivere had gotten out his first-aid kit and was stitching up an ugly gash on Branwyr’s upper arm. Across the clearing, Tristan sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his forehead resting against them.

“Tristan?” Cymbeline asked gently, kneeling in front of the boy. “Are you alright?”

Tristan grunted an affirmative, keeping his head down.

“Were you injured?” Cymbeline prodded. Another grunt, this one negative, came in response to her question. She sighed and rested a hand on his head, stroking his hair gently. “It’s okay to be sick.”

Tristan finally raised his head; dried tears had streaked through the dirt and blood spatters on his face. He sniffled pathetically. “I didn’t throw up this time.”

“That’s okay,” Cymbeline smiled reassuringly. “And it would be okay if you had.”

“Does it ever get any easier?” Tristan sniffled.

“What? Battle?” Cymbeline asked. “Or killing?”

“Both.”

“Well…” Cymbeline thought for a moment. “You will get used to battle. You will get better at fighting and be able to act and react better. It will become more natural. In the same way, you will become more accustomed to killing, but that is not something that should ever be natural or easy for you. Ending someone’s life is a big deal, and very permanent. While you have to be able to come to terms with this, it should never be easy.” She sighed deeply. “However, it will inevitably become easy. That is the nature of fighting and killing.” There was another pause. “Let me put it this way: killing should never be thoughtless or pointless. If it becomes either of these things, it becomes wrong.”

Tristan nodded slowly. “That helps, I think.”

Cymbeline nodded and pulled the boy into a hug.

“Ready?” Bedivere materialized behind Cymbeline, Branwyr at his side, sporting a clean bandage peeping through her torn sleeve. “Are either of you hurt?”

“No,” Cymbeline stood up, then offered a hand to Tristan. “Let’s get going.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

As they moved deeper into Ysbadaddon’s territory, they met more and more Woads, but fewer and fewer of them were openly hostile towards the knights. There were three more attacks on the travelers, but none as violent or bloody as the first two. By the time they reached Camellaird, they were all exhausted.

“We should split up here,” Cymbeline sighed as the small, bedraggled group paused atop the last hill before the city. Camellaird was built in a shallow valley, surrounded by several low hills. The city was surrounded by a thick stone wall, clearly influenced by Roman architecture.

“How exciting,” Branwyr grumbled, eyeing the heavy clouds overhead and the mist shrouding the surrounding forest.

“I wish you could come into the city with us, but it’s better we stay separate,” Cymbeline replied. “If anyone saw us together but only Bedivere and I show up to greet Ysbadaddon and the two of you have to break out Leodegrance, none of us will make it out of the city.”

“I know,” Branwyr sighed. “But you’re not the ones who have to spend another night in the forest.”

Cymbeline and Bedivere traded a grin and spurred their horses towards the city; behind them, Branwyr turned her horse into the woods, bearing her and Tristan out of sight.

Camellaird was entirely different from the Roman fort Cymbeline and Bedivere were accustomed to. It was a Breton settlement, just as the fort had once been, but had little to none of the Roman influence that had shaped the development of Arthur’s capital. The clay bricks of Roman architecture were completely absent; mortared stones formed the walls of the buildings that the knights passed. The streets were dirtier and more cramped, and clearly unplanned. Unlike the fort, which had been forced into an organized system of roadways over the many years of Roman occupation, Camellaird was a jumbled mess of narrow, unpaved paths whose layout reminded Cymbeline more of a basket of tangled knitting than a city. Having spent so much of her life among Romans, Cymbeline found the city entirely alien. Bedivere, who had only moved to the fort a few years earlier, found it home-like and comfortable. The pedestrians around them spoke Pictish, Gaelic, and Breton—no Latin. Cymbeline could pick out a few words here and there, but the speech was too quick for her to follow after so long speaking and hearing only Latin. Even Bedivere had some trouble following the quick pace of the conversations around them.

“How’s your Gaelic?” Bedivere asked Cymbeline in a low voice; for now, they looked the part of Woad warriors, but being overheard speaking Latin would immediately blow their cover.

“Poor,” Cymbeline replied. “I haven’t spoken it since I was a child.”

“Let me do all the talking, then,” Bedivere grinned.

They encountered no opposition on their way to the meeting hall where the ruling family lived. In fact, the doors of the hall were wide open, and a steady stream of people passed in and out. Cymbeline and Bedivere dismounted and joined the flow of people entering the hall. Inside, the walls were hung with woven tapestries, dirtied by smoke from the huge fire burning in the center of the hall, smoke winding up through a hole in the roof. The hall was packed, and the knights soon found out why.

Most of the people passing in and out, as well as making up the crowd, were swearing their fealty to Ysbadaddon and his wife Nimue. Some of them were bringing grievances before the Woad leaders, but many had come to swear allegiance and offer their swords to the army. There were also a large number of spies reporting on the results of their information-gathering; the knights were unnerved by the frequency of these reports, although many of them overlapped and few had very important information on the holdouts against Ysbadaddon.

“Arthur is even less popular than we realized,” Bedivere murmured in Welsh. Cymbeline grunted her agreement as they moved forward with the crowd.

Finally, Cymbeline and Bedivere stood before the thrones of Ysbadaddon and Nimue. Cymbeline eyed the couple warily; she and Bedivere were the first knights of Arthur’s court to actually lay eyes on the Woad rebels. Ysbadaddon was a huge hulk of a man, easily bigger than Bors and his brawny sons. His muscles bulged under his heavy winter clothes, and even slouched down in his seat he was clearly well over six feet tall. His face bore a bored expression, as though the goings-on in the hall were beneath him, but there was a cunning gleam in his eyes that set Cymbeline on edge. Nimue was dainty by comparison, similar in height and build to Guinevere, but her posture showed a coiled strength. Cymbeline reminded herself that Nimue was a Woad, just like she and Guinevere were, and had likely been trained as a warrior along the boys of her village since childhood. Beyond that, there were whispers that Nimue was a sorceress, a practitioner of dark magic; looking at the woman, Cymbeline had no doubt that the rumors were true. The most surprising thing about the couple was their youth. Ysbadaddon hardly looked older than his mid-thirties, if he was even that old, and Nimue was clearly younger than him. However, the cold, calculating, and easily wicked air and bearing of the couple set the knights on edge.

When Cymbeline and Bedivere stepped forward, a man, clearly Ysbadaddon’s general or seneschal, strode to meet them, stretching out his palm towards the two. “Kneel and declare your allegiance to Ysbaddadon and Nimue!” he crowed in Pictish.

“No,” Bedivere said simply.

In an instant, every weapon in the hall was drawn and aimed at the knights.

“We are here to speak for King Arthur and Queen Guinevere of Britain,” Bedivere’s voice rang out in the suddenly silent hall, followed by a rippling murmur of admiration for the audacity of the duo for coming into the capital of Ysbadaddon alone. “We have come to negotiate for the freedom of Leodegrance, father of the queen.”

“There will be no negotiating,” Ysbadaddon scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Leodegrance and Camellaird fell to me and my warriors. By all terms, he is now my prisoner of war, and I may do whatever I want with him.”

“Yes, well, as I’m sure you were aware, attacking the family of the queen will have to have consequences,” Bedivere shrugged. “It can be looked at as nothing but a declaration of war on King Arthur and Queen Guinevere’s realm, and will be treated as such. However, if you will negotiate the release of Leodegrance to us, the response from Arthur will be less harsh.”

The hall fell silent for a moment after Bedivere’s declaration. The silence was broken by the sound of laughter. It came first from Ysbadaddon, deep, reverberating chuckles that deepened into full, roaring belly laughs. Nimue soon chimed in with her own pealing giggle. An uncertain murmur ran through the crowd, who had begun to sheathe their weapons.

“Out!” Ysbadaddon roared suddenly. His bellow filled the hall and almost seemed to have a physical force as the occupants turned and stampeded for the door. Moments later, only Ysbadaddon, Nimue, Cymbeline, and Bedivere stood in the center of the chamber, with a few of Ysbadaddon’s guards and his seneschal against the walls of the chamber.

“What could you possibly have to offer me that is greater than the power I wield while I have the queen’s own father in my prison?” Ysbaddadon sat up and leaned forwards, elbows on his knees and hands folded under his chin. Nimue, in contrast, leaned back, draping herself languidly over her chair and resting a hand against Ysbadaddon’s side. “In fact, what could you have to offer me at all?”

“That is what we are here to discuss,” Bedivere replied smoothly.

“You haven’t introduced yourselves,” Nimue piped up. Her voice was soft and musical, lower than the knights had expected. It was purely seductive, and Bedivere suddenly found his mouth very dry.

“I don’t suppose you speak Welsh by any chance?” Cymbeline grumbled in her broken Pictish. “Or Breton? Certainly not Latin?”

“Breton will do,” Nimue replied, switching languages effortlessly. “Now, what are your names?”

“I am Cymbeline, daughter of Rhience and wife of Gawain, knight of King Arthur,” Cymbeline squared her shoulders, more comfortable and self-assured now that she could understand everything that was being said.

“Ah, and this is your husband?” Nimue turned her gleaming green eyes to Bedivere, examining him carefully.

“This is my cousin Bedivere, son of Fionnlagh, and another knight of Arthur’s court.”

“Good to know,” Nimue smiled.

“What is?” Cymbeline asked.

“That Guinevere’s forces are so thinly stretched that she can only spare a sapling knight and the wife of another warrior to come and negotiate for the release of her own father,” Nimue shrugged. “That, or she doesn’t really care about him as much as she wants us to think she does.”

“I think you’ve misunderstood,” there was a chill tone to Cymbeline’s voice as she spoke. “I am not merely the wife of a knight. I am a knight in my own right, and have been seated at Arthur’s round table for longer than most of his knights, except for those few surviving from Sarmatia. Additionally, I oversee the training of new warriors, those who wish to be knights particularly, as there are few even around the table who Arthur both trusts and deems skilled enough to train his future champions.” She shook back her long hair and took a step forward. “Therefore, I offer a piece of advice to you: you would do well not to underestimate me, or any other warrior of Arthur’s court. We have wicked teeth.” She grinned, baring her teeth and fingering the hilts of the knives strapped to her thighs.

Nimue arched her eyebrows but remained silent, sizing up the two knights with a new appreciation.

“I see that we have taken your appearance too lightly,” Ysbadaddon spoke. “You must be tired; it is a long journey to Camellaird from the great wall. We will provide you with food and beds for the night at least, and tomorrow we will talk—although I warn you, I have no intention of releasing Leodegrance for anything less than Arthur abdicating his throne.”

“We will talk in the morning,” Cymbeline replied coldly.

“Bruin!” Ysbadaddon gestured for his seneschal, who hurried forward. “See our guests—Cymbeline and Bedivere, was it—to rooms in the house. Make sure they are fed and otherwise provided for.”

The seneschal bowed slightly, then turned, clearly expecting Cymbeline and Bedivere to follow. He led them through a doorway in the back of the hall that led into a dark, low corridor. Many doors and small hallways branched off from the main corridor, which wound far from the main hall. Finally, Bruin led the knights into a small hallway to the left of the corridor with several doors spaced along the length of it. He opened a door, gesturing the knights in. There was a low bed against one wall, with a trunk at its foot, a stand with a bowl for washing in, a chamber pot, and a window, covered with heavy cloth for the winter. A torch burned in a sconce by the door, and an unlit candle was set next to the bed.

“You may use this room and the one to the left,” Bruin informed them in clipped tones. “Food will be brought to you, and anything else you need. If you are found wandering the halls or speaking to anyone, you will be killed. I assume you rode horses here?”

“Yes, they are in the courtyard,” Cymbeline replied.

“They will be stabled and your things brought to you,” Bruin replied. His nose wrinkled slightly. “I hope you have a change of clothes.” With that, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

“What do you want to bet we’re being watched and guarded?” Bedivere sighed, sitting down on the bed.

Cymbeline snorted. “They probably have people who speak Latin listening to our every word.”

“Most likely,” Bedivere agreed.

“What did you think?” Cymbeline asked.

“Of the Woads’ hero?” Bedivere shrugged. “About what I was expecting. His wife was more surprising to me. She seems like she belongs in a Roman household, not a Breton court.”

“There is something wicked to her,” Cymbeline rolled her shoulders, pulling the cloth over the window back to peer out. “She sent chills down my spine.” The girl grinned and looked over her shoulder at Bedivere. “I think she sent something else through parts of you.”

Bedivere flushed bright red and worked his jaw, searching for a response.

“Don’t worry,” Cymbeline teased, “I won’t tell Bran.” She patted him on the shoulder as she left the room, heading for her own. Sure enough, she caught a glance of well-armed guards at the mouth of the hallway, although there were none closer to their rooms. Her room was set up the same as Bedivere’s had been. She sank down onto the bed, suddenly exhausted and scared. Biting her lip, she let herself fall onto her side, her hair splaying around her as she trembled with suppressed sobs. She lay like that until a knock sounded on her door. Cymbeline sat up and rubbed away her tears, although there was no hiding the puffy redness around her eyes. “Come in!” she called.

“Your things, Milady,” a young servant girl bowed deeply as she stepped in; Cymbeline’s saddle bags were slung over her shoulders and she set them on the floor near the door. “Someone will bring you food shortly.”

“Thank you,” Cymbeline smiled and nodded. As soon as the door was shut, she stood and hurried to her bags. To her surprise, she found them just as she had left them; Ysbadaddon’s men hadn’t searched them, then. Her weapons were sheathed and as sharp as ever—Cymbeline was surprised they had even been brought to her.

The door opened slightly and Bedivere poked his head in. “So they brought you your weapons as well.”

“Yes; I was surprised to see them,” she replied, gathering her things and turning towards the bed, hiding her tear-streaked face.

“So was I,” Bedivere stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and leaning against the wall beside it.

Cymbeline busied herself with sorting through her things. She did have a change of clothes, fortunately, as the seneschal wasn’t the only one who had noticed how bad she smelled, as well as what was left of her provisions for the journey home and a few other miscellaneous items. At the bottom of her last bag, she found something that made her gasp and tear up again. Bedivere, hearing the choked sound, jumped forward.

“What’s wrong?”

Cymbeline turned towards him, tears flowing fresh, and simply held out her hand. In it was a small, chewed-up wooden carving of a seal. “It’s Lot’s favorite,” she said simply. “I don’t know how it got in my bag. He must be so upset without it.”

Bedivere strode forward and wrapped her in a giant hug. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he soothed. “He’s got his brother and sister with him.”

“But this is his selkie,” Cymbeline blubbered into his shoulder. “He must miss it so much.”

“Well, it’ll make him all the happier to see you again when you bring it back to him,” Bedivere stroked her hair.

“What if I don’t make it back?” Cymbeline broke away and sat down heavily on the bed.

“You will,” Bedivere replied simply.

“I might not,” Cymbeline said stubbornly.

“Of course you will,” Bedivere knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “You said it yourself when you were talking to Nimue; you’re one of the most skilled knights at the table. You’re a force to be reckoned with, and anyone who underestimates you won’t live to make another mistake like that.”

“One should never put too much stock in oneself,” Cymbeline mumbled.


	9. Chapter 9

In the morning, Cymbeline and Bedivere, rested, fed, and cleaned up, rose to meet with Ysbadaddon and Nimue. They were ushered into the main hall, which was empty save for a few guards and Bruin. In front of the thrones, a table had been placed, with a wooden bench on the side across from the thrones. The knights exchanged glances and sat down on the bench, waiting patiently for the Woad rebels to join them. They didn’t wait long; only minutes after they arrived, Ysbadaddon strode into the hall, followed closely by Nimue.

“Our guests,” Nimue greeted the duo cordially as she and her husband settled into their thrones.

“Good morning,” Cymbeline nodded politely but didn’t rise.

“I trust you slept well?” Nimue asked.

“Well enough,” Cymbeline nodded.

“I am so glad to hear it,” Nimue smiled.

Cymbeline replied with a tight smile and turned to Ysbadaddon. “You know what we want. The only question we have to answer today is what you want in return.”

“I want Arthur to abdicate his throne,” Ysbadaddon shrugged, leaning back.

“That will never happen,” Cymbeline scoffed.

“Then we have nothing to talk about,” Ysbadaddon stood and headed for the door of the hall.

“What would you do if we agreed?” Cymbeline asked. Ysbadaddon stopped and turned towards her again. “If we told you that Arthur was prepared to step down in return for Leodegrance’s release, what would you do?”

“I would rejoice in the fact that a foreigner no longer claims the right to rule over my homeland,” Ysbadaddon sneered.

“And who would you have replace him?” Cymbeline asked. “Would you take possession of the tribes of the southern half of Britain? You can’t even control the north! Morgana controls many of the tribes and villages here. Arthur at least keeps his people safe and united, even if he is not fully Breton.”

“Your Arthur,” Ysbadaddon sneered, his voice dripping with derision, “has no concern for the people of this island. He is just another Roman, desiring nothing but to subjugate us under his rule, to lord himself over us. The Romans are all alike; they think that they are better than us because of their books and God. We value different things, like life and family. The Romans are no better than us. If anything they are lower creatures. We may be, as they say, pagans, but we are at least human.”

“You’re not wrong,” Cymbeline shrugged. “All of the Romans I have ever known—and trust me, I have known plenty—care only for themselves. They are selfish, centered upon their wealth and learning. But that is not Arthur. Arthur has nothing but care for others! I’m sure that you have heard of the Battle of Badon Hill?” Ysbadaddon snorted, which Cymbeline took as license to continue: “The Romans were leaving the island. They were abandoning it to the Saxons, who were destroying everything in their path. Arthur and his knights had just led an entire village of Bretons to safety beyond the wall. When the Romans left, Arthur alone stayed behind with Merlin’s army to defend Britain from the Saxons. His knights returned to fight alongside him, because they knew that he had done what was right. And that day, the Saxons were defeated. The only reason any of us is here today is because Arthur made that choice on that day.”

Cymbeline sighed and rested her elbows on the table. “Arthur is a good man. There is nothing more I can say about him than that. He values equality above almost anything; he does not believe one man—or woman—is any better than another. He is called ‘king’, but you would not be able to pick him out of a crowd as such, unless it was by his bearing. He is not arrogant and selfish and conceited like the Romans. He is humble and kind and honest. That is why his people love him, and it is why he is king.”

Ysbadaddon, who had regained his seat during Cymbeline’s speech, rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about his qualities. I want him gone.”

“Then you’re right; we have nothing to talk about.”

.*.*.*.*.*.

For the next three days, Cymbeline and Bedivere rose in the morning to meet with Ysbadaddon and Nimue. These conversations had the same result as the first: Ysbadaddon demanded Arthur’s resignation in exchange for Leodegrance’s release, and Cymbeline refused. On their fifth night in the great hall of Camellaird, Cymbeline and Bedivere sat in Cymbeline’s room and spoke quietly.

“He’s not going to give in to us for anything less than Arthur’s deposal,” Bedivere sighed.

“I know,” Cymbeline agreed.

“We were supposed to get word to Branwyr and Tristan by last night if they were to stand down,” Bedivere said.

“I know,” Cymbeline replied. “They’ll make their move tonight.”

“Which means that we need to cause a distraction,” Bedivere said.

“Agreed,” Cymbeline replied. “Any suggestions?”

“Fire?” Bedivere suggested.

“And how do you suggest doing that without drawing suspicion down on us when Leodegrance is discovered missing?” Cymbeline snarked.

“I have an idea,” Bedivere said mysteriously. “But it will have to wait. Branwyr won’t risk making a big move until sundown.”

“Well, in that case, we don’t have long,” Cymbeline muttered, glancing out the window, which she had opened to let fresh air into the small room. They could see the brilliant pinks and vivid oranges that signified the sun setting behind the nearby hills, and the deep blue-black of the night sky above it.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Branwyr glanced around cautiously. She and Tristan had camped outside of the city for four days, ducking through the gate or slipping over the walls to scout the inside in case they had to break Leodegrance out. By the fourth night since their arrival, Branwyr had a plan ready, and when Cymbeline and Bedivere did not ride out the next morning, she put it into motion. Now, at sunset, Tristan was hidden in the brush near the wall by the great hall, along with their horse, waiting to creep closer once night fell. The moon was dark that night, working in their favor to allow Tristan to get very close to the city and Branwyr to creep around inside it without detection. The sun was just setting when Branwyr entered the city, playing the part of a weary traveler arriving just before the gates closed. She accepted directions to an inn near the hall, even though she already knew her way, and moved invisibly through the thinning street crowd—not to the inn, but to the hall itself.

Ysbaddadon’s prison was a separate building behind the great hall, built directly into the wall from heavy stone. The only gap in its strength was the great wooden door, reinforced with heavy iron hinges and several sturdy locks. This was also the only problem Branwyr was certain of facing—she was equally certain that Bedivere and Cymbeline would find some way to cause a ruckus and draw attention away from the prison. All she had to do was wait for this to draw away the guards, and then she could make her move.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky faded to black, darkness fell upon the city. The front of the hall was lit from the inns and taverns and homes of the city, but nothing but the prison was behind this section of the hall and was therefore dark but for the dim glow of the stars. There were two guards on the prison, one on either side of the great door, both lounging complacently.

Suddenly, a lurid orange light sprang up from the far side of the hall. Cries of “Fire!” rang out, and the guards jerked to attention.

“That’s the signal,” Branwyr grinned to herself. She crept closer to the prison, staying pressed up against the wall, as the guards debated whether or not to help deal with the fire. Finally, one of the guards rushed off to help fight the flames, while the other remained by the door.

As soon as the first guard was out of sight around the near corner of the hall, Branwyr made her move towards the second. Sneaking up behind him, she had one arm tightly around his throat, cutting off his air supply and successfully keeping him from crying out. When he was unconscious from lack of air, she lowered him to the ground and slipped the keys to the door locks from his belt. The locks clicked smoothly open, and the door moved easily on well-oiled hinges. Inside, the prison was completely dark.

“Hello?” Branwyr called softly. “King Leodegrance?”

“Who is it?” a hoarse voice whispered in a heavy northern accent.

“My name is Branwyr,” she replied, moving towards the voice. “I was sent by Queen Guinevere to free you.”

“Over here,” the voice replied. Branwyr moved towards it and nearly tripped over a body on the floor.

“Thank you,” Leodegrance whispered as Branwyr fumbled for the shackles around his wrists and ankles. “My daughter,” he mumbled once freed.

Branwyr hid her surprise and searched the nearby floor for the second occupant. The second set of shackles was released and fell to the floor. “Follow me,” she whispered, taking the girl’s hand with her own and placing Leodegrance’s hand in his daughter’s. She led them out of the prison and peered through the doorway. A glance told her that the fire was still burning, allowing them the freedom to slip unseen towards the wall, although the glow of the fire risked them being seen.

The trio darted quickly across the open space between the prison and wall, hugging the stonework once they reached it to avoid being seen. “Can you climb the wall?” Branwyr asked.

“Maybe,” Leodegrance eyed it doubtfully.

“I don’t think so,” the minor king’s daughter said dubiously.

Branwyr nodded and led them into the town. They reached the place where Tristan would be waiting on the other side and stopped. Branwyr situated the freed prisoners against the wall and whistled sharply. Seconds later, her whistle was answered with an arrow smacking into the wall of a nearby building, a rope tied to the end of it.

“Come here,” Branwyr waved Leodegrance’s daughter over. “What is your name?”

“Guinaelle,” the girl replied shily. She was about Branwyr’s age, just shy of twenty, but thinner and lacking the knight’s muscle.

“That’s beautiful,” Branwyr smiled. “I’m going to need you to come over and put your arms around my shoulders and your legs over my hips. I’m going to carry you up the wall, and then you’re going to help me help your father up.”

“Okay,” Guinaelle said dubiously.

“It’ll be okay,” Branwyr smiled. Hesitantly, the girl followed Branwyr’s instructions, clinging to the knight’s back like a small child. Once they were settled, Branwyr grabbed onto the rope and climbed it. With the added weight of Guinaelle on her back, it was slow going and Branwyr was sweating and gasping for breath.

Once the girls were on the wall, Leodegrance began climbing. The girls aided his progress by heaving the rope up, and he joined them on the wall in only a few minutes. Branwyr tossed the free end of the rope around an outcrop in the wall so that it rose on one side and fell down the other. A glance down at the ground showed Tristan standing beside a stake, driven diagonally into the ground near the wall to keep the rope taut. Branwyr directed Leodegrance to climb down first, and once he was on the ground, Guinaelle climbed onto Branwyr’s back and the girls made their way down. As soon as everyone was on the ground, Tristan untied the rope from the stake and pulled it down from the wall, then they all hurried to the forest.

“You only have one horse?” Leodegrance stared in confusion at the animal.

“For now,” Branwyr nodded. “Let’s go. We’re going to put some distance between ourselves and Camellaird, and then we’ll rest. The other members of our party should join us tomorrow.”


	10. Chapter 10

In the morning, Cymbeline and Bedivere were hauled in front of Ysbaddadon in the great hall. The warlord was clearly furious; he looked so vicious that the knights were unnerved facing him.

“Leodegrance and his daughter are missing,” Ysbaddadon glowered at the knights.

“And you think we’re responsible?” Cymbeline scoffed. “We worked alongside your men to fight the fire last night. How could we have freed them?”

“How did the fire start?” Nimue asked.

“I told you last night, I was in Cymbeline’s room, discussing our journey back to the wall, and when I returned to my own, I found it engulfed in flames,” Bedivere explained. “A spark must have fallen from the torch onto the bed and spread from there. With how dry the materials used to build the hall were, the speed at which the fire spread is unsurprising.”

Nimue looked unconvinced, but remained silent.

“You are no longer welcome here,” Ysbaddadon declared suddenly. “You will collect your things and leave immediately.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Cymbeline said coolly. She turned on her heel and led the way out of the hall, bag on her shoulder, Bedivere following. In the courtyard, their horses had already been prepared and were waiting; the knights mounted and rode out of the city without another glance over their shoulders.

A few miles out from the city, once they were sure they weren’t being followed, the knights turned off the path and headed for a clearing several hundred feet into the forest. Branwyr and Tristan were waiting there, along with Leodegrance and Guinaelle. Branwyr mounted behind Cymbeline, while Tristan sat in front of Bedivere, leaving the third horse for Leodegrance and his daughter.

The ride back to the wall was rushed; they did not stop to make camp or to rest during the day, only stopping to sleep for a few hours at night. For some reason, Ysbadaddon never sent anyone after them, but the knights did not relax until they rode through the gates of the fort five and a half days after they left Camellaird. 

“Jols!” Cymbeline greeted the stable master with a tired smile when they rode into the stable yard. “Please take care of the horses; we have to go and see the queen.”

“You’ll find her at Vanora’s,” Jols informed them, he and a pair of stablehands taking the reins of the horses to lead them into the stables.

Cymbeline and the knights led Leodegrance and Guinaelle to Vanora’s tavern, where they found Guinevere and her sons, along with a large collection of people, including Vanora and her children, Culhwch and Olwyn, and Cymbeline’s children. Guinevere was chatting with Olwyn, her younger son in her arms, and Cymbeline’s daughter in Olwyn’s. As they stepped into the familiar warmth and bustle of the tavern, there was a squeal and cries of “Branwyr! Tristan! Cymbeline!” and several of Vanora’s children charged them. With a grin, Cymbeline bent down and hoisted five-year-old Sallem up onto her hip.

“Welcome home!” Vanora cried, running up to hug the two children she’d been missing for the past two weeks, her youngest son in her arms.

“Hello, Mother,” Branwyr beamed, embracing her mother before taking three-year-old Llamrei into her own arms. Vanora almost lifted Tristan off the floor in a huge hug before turning to Cymbeline and Bedivere in turn.

Meanwhile, Guinevere had stood and rushed over to embrace her father and sister with her free arm. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she gasped, eyes welling up. “When we heard that Ysbadaddon had taken Camellaird, we feared the worst.”

“Yes, we’re alright,” Leodegrance beamed at his older daughter, “thanks entirely to your brave knights.”

“We’re just doing our job,” Bedivere winked, grinning charmingly. “And it was our pleasure to piss off that asshole warlord.”

“Most definitely,” Cymbeline grinned in agreement, setting Sallem down only to claim her daughter from Olwyn, hugging the baby girl close.

“She’s been fussy since you left,” Olwyn smiled. “She hasn’t slept well—must be exhausted, the poor thing. We couldn’t get her to sleep unless she was in someone’s arms, and as soon as we set her down, she’d be awake and crying.”

“I’m so sorry for leaving you, mo ghile mear,” Cymbeline murmured, holding her daughter close to her chest, taking solace in the tiny bundle of warmth in her arms. “I promise, I will do my best to never leave you alone again,” she whispered, her hand stroking the soft bronze curls that already covered the baby’s head.

Olwyn smiled and rested a hand on her friend’s arm. “The boys are down for a nap. They’ve been much calmer than she has. Although, we haven’t been able to find Lot’s toy selkie—he was pretty upset about that for a while. I can’t imagine what happened to it; it’s like it just disappeared!”

With a laugh, Cymbeline dug into a pocket in her sweater and produce the much-chewed wooden toy. “I found it in one of my saddlebags when we got to Camellaird. I have no idea how it got there.”

“Well, Lot will be happy to have this back,” Olwyn laughed, taking the toy. “Come on, they’re probably awake by now.”

Cymbeline eagerly followed her friend upstairs to the room used as a nursery during the day while Vanora and Olwyn kept watch over the babies. Sure enough, when they gently opened the door, they could hear the sound of two babies happily burbling back and forth to each other; a quick investigation confirmed that it was Lot and Rhience, the oldest and youngest of Cymbeline’s triplets, chattering with one another, while Vanora’s baby girl, Jennie, slept soundly in her own cradle. Quietly, Cymbeline passed her daughter back to Olwyn and carefully picked up the boys. She settled down on the roomy chair they kept in the room, holding the boys close and rocking them gently, while Olwyn sat on the footstool, bouncing Bella on her knee. They sat in silence in the warm, dark room, for a long time, Cymbeline simply relishing the presence of her children and mentally vowing to never leave them again.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

To their surprise, Ysbadaddon sent no envoy after them. No attempt was made by the warlord to track down Leodegrance and Guinaelle, and the few scouts that were sent above the wall returned with no reports of Ysbadaddon beginning any kind of search for his prisoners.

“I don’t like it,” Cullwch said stubbornly at a meeting at the round table a few weeks after Cymbeline and Bedivere’s return. “Ysbadaddon is known for nothing but being vicious, and here we are, almost a month after stealing some of his own prisoners right out from under his nose, and he’s doing nothing?”

“We don’t actually know that he’s doing nothing,” Cymbeline pointed out gently, bouncing a fussy Rhience on her knee—the youngest and smallest of the triplets was down with colic, leading to an incredibly exhausted and frustrated mother. “All we know is that we haven’t heard about him doing anything. It’s not the same thing.”

“That’s true,” Bedivere agreed. “For all we know, he could be plotting revenge—or even beginning to enact it—and we just haven’t seen or heard of it yet.”

“I agree,” Dinadan piped up—a rare occurrence during these meetings—nodding sagely. “It seems unlikely that Ysbadaddon and his witch-wife aren’t plotting something. After all, they’ve done nothing but plot since Arthur left for Sarmatia, if not before. All logic seems to indicate that something is likely to happen, and, considering that Ysbadaddon isn’t exactly known for his patience, it’s probably going to happen sooner rather than later.”

“I agree,” Guinevere concurred. “We need to be ready. Ysbaddadon could move against us at any time. If we’re not prepared, we will fall to him.” She paused for a moment. “We haven’t spent almost five years fighting to unite Britain just to let it fall to a war-mongering monster like Ysbadaddon.”

The knights nodded in agreement, but Bedivere leaned over to whisper to Cymbeline: “I almost wonder who’s more of a monster: Ysbadaddon, or his wife.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Cymbeline tossed and turned in her bed. The triplets were, for once, all sleeping peacefully. Rhience seemed to be over at least the worst of his colic, and Bellicent and Lot regularly slept through the night anyways, so their mother should have been able to rest—yet she wasn’t. Something was wrong; the air, the night—everything just felt somehow off. With a groan, she rolled out of bed and onto her feet and pulled a long, loose shirt—one of Gawain’s, she thought; she’d taken to wearing his clothes while she was pregnant and none of her own fit—over the more fitted undershirt and leggings she had worn to bed. Quietly, she slipped on a pair of socks, her boots, and her weapon belt, grabbing a larger axe than she usually carried along with the rest of her weapons as she padded out into the common room of the little apartment. To her surprise, she found Bedivere in the common room, strapping on his own weapons.

“Good morning,” Cymbeline said wryly as she gently shut her door behind her.

Bedivere replied with a tired smile as he tightened his sword belt around his waist. “Couldn’t sleep. I want to walk the walls.”

“Me too,” Cymbeline deposited the weapons on the table and began strapping them to her body; her sickles crossed on her back, the bone-handled knives on her right thigh, a short sword on her left hip and the lion-hilted dagger given to her by a kindly Roman blacksmith five years earlier on her right hip. She moved to a series of pegs beside the door and pulled down several cold-weather wraps for herself and Bedivere. They each wrapped a tan, brown, and red tartan cloak around their shoulders; the wool hung to the backs of their knees, while two panels in the front wrapped and were pinned over the shoulders. Cymbeline added a long hooded scarf, the ends stitched together to make it a long loop, around her neck, wrapped twice, and a pair of wool mittens that slipped under the loose sleeves of Gawain’s shirt. Bedivere opted to set aside his hood and simply slip on a pair of fingerless mitts.

A creak of a door behind them caused the cousins to turn. “Is something wrong?” Griflet asked sleepily, Lucan’s sandy curls visible behind his shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bedivere soothed the boys. “We just can’t sleep, so we’re going to walk the walls.”

“You need your weapons to walk the walls?” Griflet arched an eyebrow.

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Cymbeline smiled placatingly. “Go back to bed. If the babies cry, check on them. We’ll be back soon.”

Grifflet nodded and yawned, turning to shuffle back into the room and nearly tripping over Lucan.

“Griflet?” Bedivere called after the teenager, and both boys peered back at him in the dim light. “If anything does happen, you know what to do, right?”

“Get the babies to Vanora and get ourselves to the wall,” Griflet intoned.

“Right,” Bedivere nodded. “Now go back to bed. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night,” Griflet yawned, sidling around Lucan to return to his bed.

“Go back to bed, Lucan,” Bedivere instructed his brother firmly.

Reluctantly, Lucan turned back to his bed, leaving the door to the room open slightly. Through the gap, Bedivere and Cymbeline could see him crawl into the bed he shared with Griflet and tug blankets back from the middle brother before settling down to sleep.

Bedivere and Cymbeline traded glances before heading for the door, Cymbeline grabbing her axe from the table as they left. They clattered down the noisy wooden stairs on the outside of the apartment, but walked in silence the rest of the way to the wall. Before they rounded the next corner, Cymbeline glanced over her shoulder at the apartment she was sharing with her cousins; she could have sworn that she saw the door close, but chalked it up to a trick of the moonlight as she and Bedivere rounded the corner.

When they reached the wall, they climbed the nearest flight of stairs and nodded in greeting at the nearest sentry, then started a slow amble around the perimeter of the fort. Halfway around, Cymbeline paused, staring out at Hadrian’s Wall, which rose a few feet above the wall of the fort itself.

“What is it?” Bedivere asked.

“Let’s go up there,” Cymbeline replied, heading for the next ladder up to the top of the Wall.

When the two reached the top of the Wall, they found Dagonet and Branwyr crouched behind the crenellations, peering out to the north. “What do you see?” Cymbeline asked, creeping up beside Dag while Bedivere joined Branwyr.

“There’s something out there,” Branwyr murmured. “I can’t see anything, but… There’s something.”

Cymbeline popped her head up slightly to peer around the battlements. Squinting, she scanned the distant tree line, searching for the source of the niggling feeling at the back of her neck. “I think you’re right.”


	11. Chapter 11

It was hours later when their suspicions were confirmed. Just as Cymbeline was ready to give up on the feeling that had been plaguing her since the day before, she caught a glimpse of movement in the distant tree line.

“Look!” she gasped, pointing at the forest beyond the wall.

“What did you see?” Bedivere asked, suddenly alert as he scanned the trees.

“I’m not sure,” Cymbeline replied. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s a little dark out.”

“Now’s not the time, Cymbeline,” Bedivere all-but growled.

“There’s something in the trees,” Cymbeline murmured, eyes fixed on the spot she had seen before. “I swear I saw—there!”

“I saw it too,” Branwyr confirmed. “I’m not sure what it was, though.”

“There,” Dagonet pointed to a point in the trees that was closer to the fort. “There’s something there too.”

Bedivere squinted at the point Dagonet had indicated. “I still don’t see anything.”

Before anyone could say another word, the forest came to life with a thousand points of light. In the sudden illumination, they could see the vague forms of hundreds of vaguely human figures striding towards the wall. The knights were on their feet in an instant, gaping out at the army facing them.

Cymbeline was the first to snap into action. “Sound the alarm!!!” she bellowed at the wall below them. The nearest sentry stared up at her in confusion, but quickly hurried to follow her order. Moments later, loud bells rang out over the fort. They were followed by lights flaring up in many of the houses, as well as a sudden rush of people out onto the streets. Sounds of confusion soon reached the knights on the Wall.

“Dag,” Cymbeline turned to the teenager. “I need you to go to the gate north and make sure it’s sealed completely.” Dagonet nodded and began sprinting along the wall in the direction of the gate. “Branwyr, you’re in charge of the archers. You’ll be our first line of defense against this. And I’ll be sending the knights-in-training up to you; we’ll need all the archers we can get, and there are enough people out there that we won’t need to aim tremendously well.”

Leaving Branwyr to organize the archers on the Wall, Cymbeline and Bedivere clambered down the ladder to the wall of the fort. “Cymbeline!” a heavily-accented voice called through the clamor of confusion from the streets and from the guards preparing to defend the fort.

“Go make sure the fort gates are shut,” Cymbeline instructed Bedivere, who nodded and rushed off. “Ganis, hello. Sorry to wake you.”

“What’s going on?” the Breton demanded. “The sentries said you called for the alarm.”

“We were right about Ysbadaddon,” Cymbeline said, heading for the main stairway up to the wall. That was where she was most likely to meet the other knights and trainees, and she wanted to make sure they were organized and sent off quickly. “He’s been planning revenge for us stealing away Leodegrance and Guinaelle. Or maybe this was his plan all along; to attack Camelot while Arthur was gone. Either way, there are hundreds—if not more—of his followers out there. Or at least I assume they belong to Ysbadaddon, Although, they could just as easily be Morgana’s.” Realizing that she was babbling, Cymbeline snapped her mouth shut and focused on getting to the stairwell.

“There’s how many out there?” Ganis gaped, hurrying after the small woman.

“You’re welcome to go up to the Wall and count them for yourself, if you’d like,” Cymbeline snapped. “If you ask me, though, there are decidedly better things to do at the moment.”

Unseen by Cymbeline, Ganis rolled his eyes, but he continued to follow the young woman towards the stairs. “Do we have a plan?” he asked, not really hoping for much.

“Don’t die,” Cymbeline shrugged, darting down the stairs to the small cluster of knights that stood out of the way of the fort’s guards as they rushed for the Wall.

“Cymbeline!” Kei looked relieved as she materialized beside him. “Do you have any idea what’s going on.”

“As far as we know, Ysbadaddon is mounting that attack we’ve been so worried about,” Cymbeline replied. “It looks like he’s got a good few hundred men out there.”

“So, what do you want us to do?” Dinadan asked.

“Who, me?” Cymbeline asked, startled. “Why me?”

“You were the first to spot them,” Kei said, as though it were obvious. “Not to mention you’re one of the few people pretty much everyone in the fort will listen to.”

“Also, you’ve been a knight longer than any of us,” Dinadan added.

Cymbeline opened her mouth to protest, but a fresh round of alarm bells cut her off. “Fine then,” she nodded briskly. “All knights in training, head up to the Great Wall. Branwyr is up there, and I’ve left her in charge of the archers. You’ll be joining them, so make sure you have bows and full quivers before you go up.” The group of teenagers detached themselves from the knights and hurried off for the armory to fetch bows before climbing up to the Wall.

“Daniel and Dinadan,” Cymbeline turned her attention to the brothers. “Dagonet has already gone to the gate to the north to make sure it’s sealed properly. I want you two to join him. I’ll be sending Bedivere along as well. Take bows and arrows with you too; you’ll have to defend the gate to avoid a breach.” The fair-haired brothers nodded and made for the armory just as the younglings exited it.

“Kei, I need your help organizing the defense of the fort,” Cymbeline turned to the flame-haired Celt. “You and Ganis will be in charge of keeping it in case the Wall is breached.”

“Where will you be?” Kei asked.

“I’ll be going to the gate,” Cymbeline replied. “We’ll need all the help there that we can get in case it’s breached.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” Kei asked. “I could go to the gate. You have your children”—

“The defense of the fort itself is far more important than my children right now, as much as it may hurt me to admit it,” Cymbeline interrupted. “Right now, I am trusting you to take care of this place  _ and _ the people in it, including my children.” She paused before continuing. “I am also trusting that, if anything were to happen to me, you will help to care for my children until their father returns.”

“Of course,” Kei drew himself up. “I would be honored to do so. Although, that is one honor I hope to never have.”

Cymbeline smiled warmly up at him and clasped his forearm in thanks. “Go, find Ganis. Have him put anyone at all capable of a decent shot up on that Wall with Branwyr. If the Wall is breached through the gate, he’ll need to pull half of them back to cover the fort, but otherwise, keep them on the Wall. We’ll do better if we can take as many of them out as possible before they can get close. They’re less likely to breach in that case. Keep a guard on the gates at all times, as well. If the Wall gate is breached, evacuate the people from this part of the fort towards the villa.”

Kei nodded along as Cymbeline rattled off her instructions, waiting for her to take a breath. As soon as she did, he put his hands on her shoulders and stared down into her eyes. “Cymbeline, go. You have to organize the gate forces. Ganis and I can get things under control here.”

“Right,” the girl nodded firmly. With a final nod, she ducked out of Kei’s grip and darted towards the armory. “Beds!” she called to her cousin, waving him over as he hurried over from the fort gates. “With me!”

“Fort gates are sealed,” Bedivere reported, falling into step beside his cousin. “Where are we off to?”

“The Wall gate,” Cymbeline replied. “Grab a bow and a full quiver and let’s get going. I’ve left Kei and Ganis in charge here.” The duo ducked into the armory and grabbed a pair of bows and quivers, then made back for the wall. “Cullwch!” Cymbeline called to the Welsh knight, spotting him heading for the stairs up to the wall.

“Sorry, I got here as fast as I could,” Cullwch said, gasping for breath. “I went with Olwyn to fetch your children, and then Guinevere had me helping with the evacuation of the outer parts of the fort.”

“No apology needed,” Cymbeline replied. “Beds and I are heading for the Wall gate. Kei and Ganis are in charge of the fort and its defenses. Bran is overseeing the archers on this section of the wall. I want you to grab a detachment of archers and fill in the gap between the fort and the gate. We can’t afford anything popping up where we’re not watching us and giving us a nasty surprise.”

Cullwch nodded and raced off to the armory for his bow and arrows. Cymbeline and Bedivere headed in the opposite direction, along with the stragglers to answer the alarm bells, making for the Wall.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

At the massive gate set into Hadrian’s Wall, Cymbeline found that Dagonet and Dinadan had actually done a rather good job at organizing their defenses. The few guardsmen that always manned the gate had secured it with Dagonet’s help, and then had spread out on the nearby sections of the Wall, bows at the ready. Dinadan and Daniel had joined them. The only change Cymbeline made was to have Daniel—who was an honestly dismal shot—hand his bow off to Dagonet in favor of setting the youngest knight up as a sentry, watching the further stretch of the wall for any sign of a breach. “It may not be the most exciting or glorious job in the world, but if there’s a breach that we don’t see, it could cost the lives of a lot of people—us included.” Daniel nodded his understanding, but was clearly still reluctant to head down the wall.

Cymbeline turned at the sound of footsteps approaching from the fort. Half a dozen men dressed in the uniform of the fort guards were coming up to them. “Ganis sent us, ma’am,” one of them reported. “’e said there was no use clustering all our defenses right at the fort when the biggest danger was probably the gate. He said if you want more men, send one of us back, and he can offer another half dozen or so.”

“We’ll manage with who we have,” Cymbeline said, looking around at the small band that had been set to guard the gate. The half dozen guards that were normally posted here were finishing up their own preparations, largely concerning heavy rocks to drop on anyone who thought to ram the gate, as well as bringing large pots of oil, set on complicated hinge-like scaffolds, to boil.

“If we are breached, we can blow the horn for help,” Dinadan suggested, indicating the large horn that stood in place of alarm bells on the top of the gate.

“That’s right,” Cymbeline nodded. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Before long, the torch-bearing army had come within bow’s reach of the wall—and stopped. Cymbeline’s eyes narrowed as she watched them. “What are they waiting for?” Dagonet asked.

Cymbeline glanced up at the boy. This would be his first true battle—he had been through many skirmishes with Woads in the woods, but those would hardly compare to what they were about to face. Not that she’d seen many battles either; there had been several assaults on the fort over the past five years since she’d come home with Gawain and Galahad, all by native chieftains who sought to depose the half-Roman king, but none of them had ever been anywhere near this scale.

“They could be waiting for a number of things,” she forced herself to speak, hoping to calm her own nerves as well as those of the boy next to her. “They could be planning to make an initial assault with their bows and arrows. That wouldn’t be a bad plan, except for that we have the cover of the battlements, so it’s unlikely a volley would actually do a great deal of damage to our forces.

“They could also be planning to send out an envoy for negotiations. This would likely be Ysbadaddon himself, since we all know he’s no coward, but could just as easily be some kind of representative. In return, we would send out our own envoy. However, since we know what Ysbadaddon wants—Arthur and Guinevere’s abdication—and will in no way grant those terms, he may bypass this entirely.”

“Arthur would never abdicate to a warlord like Ysbadaddon,” Dagonet scoffed.

“Well, Ysbadaddon seems to hold out hope that he might,” Cymbeline shrugged. “Anyways, any attempt to negotiate with Arthur himself is fruitless—and Ysbadaddon knows it—since Arthur isn’t even on the island.”

“So, what’s the most likely option?” Dagonet asked.

“As I see it, there are two,” Cymbeline replied. “Either they’ll launch some sort of attack, whether that be a volley of arrows or a direct assault, or they’ll send out a herald, either with terms or a challenge.”

“That’s four options,” Bedivere spoke up from Cymbeline’s other side.

“Shut up,” Cymbeline rolled her eyes.

“Looks like they’re opting for a third—or fifth—option,” Dinadan said, pointing towards three figures striding out in front of the army.

If she squinted, Cymbeline could just make out two of the figures.

“Ysbadaddon and Nimue,” Bedivere murmured.

“And I’d hazard a guess that’s Morgana with them,” Cymbeline nodded.

“Think they want to talk to Guinevere?” Dagonet asked.

“Probably,” Cymbeline nodded. She frowned and cocked her head to the side as the figures drew to a halt. “…Or maybe not.”

The figure they had identified as Morgana took another few steps forward and raised her arms to the sky. Her robes whipped around her as the wind picked up, carrying the sound of her voice—although the words themselves were unintelligible from the distance—back to the defenders of the wall.

“What’s she doing?” one of the guards asked, his voice trembling.

“Trying to scare us,” Cymbeline replied.

“Well, it’s working,” the guard gulped.

“They say that Morgana’s a witch,” another guard piped up.

“Maybe she’s casting a spell,” offered a third.

“There’s no such thing as witches or magic,” Cymbeline said firmly. “Morgana is just playing up her reputation to make us nervous. Don’t let it work.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sunlight was just beginning to brighten the horizon when Morgana finally finished her shouting and rejoined Ysbadaddon and Nimue to head for their army.

“It’s about time,” Bedivere grumbled, rolling his head from side to side to stretch out his neck. “How long was she doing that for? She must be hoarse by now.”

“Most likely,” Cymbeline laughed.

“What do you think they’ll do now?” Dagonet asked.

“Either fire a volley or charge the walls,” Cymbeline said. “I don’t really foresee them asking for a parlay, especially after that ridiculousness.”

“Agreed,” said Bedivere.

“Should we prepare to fire?” one of the guards asked nervously.

“Nock an arrow, but don’t draw just yet,” Cymbeline replied. “Let’s wait and see what they do.”

The defenders didn’t have to wait long. As Ysbadaddon, Nimue, and Morgana vanished into the ranks of their army, a chant began. The defenders couldn’t make out the words, but the chant was soon accompanied by the sound of stomping feet and swords and spears striking shields. Cymbeline narrowed her eyes and glared out at the torch-lit host. Soon enough, the front ranks began to march forward, making for the Wall.

“READY!” Cymbeline bellowed, the call echoed down the wall. She checked her own bow, making sure the arrow was nocked properly.

The defenders watched as the army moved closer; now it was clear that the back ranks that had stayed behind were readying their own bows.

“DRAW!” the command was echoed down from the fort. Cymbeline allowed a proud smile for Branwyr to flit across her lips as she raised and drew her bow.

As they watched, the front ranks of the army suddenly stopped and dropped to their knees. Knowing what was coming next, Cymbeline cried out “FIRE!” at the same time as at least two other voices elsewhere on the Wall. All of the defenders’ arrows were loosed at once, flying towards the two parts of the army. A greater number of arrows flew towards the archers in the back, many of them finding a mark. The rest of the arrows fell among the forward section of the army, and almost all of these hit home.

The commands for a second volley echoed quickly down the line and the ensuing round of arrows was off in moments. It took a few heartbeats for Cymbeline to realize that the hissing of the arrows was growing louder, rather than quieter. “DOWN!” she screamed, dropping to a crouch and bringing her hands up to cover her head.

Most of the enemy’s volley whistled harmlessly over their heads or clattered against the Wall, but Cymbeline heard a thud and a cry of pain as one missile found its mark. Bedivere was at the guard’s side in an instant, examining the wound. Fortunately, the arrow had struck in the fleshy part of the man’s arm, and Bedivere quickly deemed it nonlethal. He bound the wound quickly and returned to Cymbeline’s side.

“Back up!” Cymbeline ordered her troupe, jumping up to her feet and bringing her bow up. “FIRE AT WILL!” she shouted down the line, the call echoed along the Wall. Arrows began to whiz constantly past, fired from dozens of bows along the length of the Wall. They also began to fly towards the defenders, although many of these bounced off the great stones of the Wall. After a few minutes focusing on firing at the archers across the field, Cymbeline noticed that the forward section of the army was moving forward, towards the Wall.

“Watch!” she cautioned her companions, turning her bow towards the creeping battalions.

The others followed suit, quickly beginning to fell the approaching warriors.

“Beds!” Cymbeline called to her cousin. “Do you see any ladders?”

“No!” he called back. “But there are other ways to breach a wall!”

Cymbeline gritted her teeth and refocused herself on firing into the ranks. The others on her section of the wall followed her lead, and soon there was a pile of bodies forming around the great gate.

Suddenly, with a whistle and a thud, Cymbeline felt a searing pain in her shoulder. She cried out and nearly dropped her bow.

“Let me see,” Bedivere materialized at her side, hands hovering around the arrow embedded in her right shoulder.

“Cym!” Dagonet called. “Are you alright?”

“I’ve had worse,” Cymbeline replied, gritting her teeth as Bedivere abruptly yanked the arrow out of her flesh.

“It’s not deep,” Bedivere informed her. “Can you move your arm alright?”

Cymbeline tested her motion and discovered that she could, in fact, move just fine, if she didn’t mind the pain. “I’ll manage.”

“I can’t bandage it; it’s in too awkward of a spot, but it’s not bleeding badly, so you should be alright,” Bedivere said.

“I’ll manage,” Cymbeline repeated.

“If you feel woozy, let me know, and I’ll take another look,” Bedivere instructed her before returning to his post.

Cymbeline took a moment to lean her back against the battlements and close her eyes, appreciating the cold radiating off of the stone. She turned slightly and raised her head to peer over the crenellations, checking on the state of their attackers. She didn’t like what she saw. Reluctantly, Cymbeline rose to her feet and picked up her bow, beginning to fire into the enemy ranks again. She was hindered slightly by the wound in her shoulder, but, thankfully, the adrenaline coursing through her body was able to dull the pain somewhat.

The archers were down to their last few arrows when the first rope flew over the side of the Wall. It was fastened to a heavy iron hook that caught on the crenellations, leaving the rope hanging down for their enemies to climb up.

“Dinadan! Get that off!” Cymbeline shouted to the other knight as a second hook caught in the stonework next to her. She loosed the arrow she had nocked and drew one of the scythes from its sheath on her back. In a single, swift motion, she sheared through the rope, sending the two Woads who had been climbing it crashing to the ground. Neither of them got back up. Cymbeline grabbed the hook and tossed it to the ground behind her. She glanced over the Wall and scowled at the teeming mass of bodies she saw there. “Oil!” she shouted towards the guards who were manning the pots. They released their arrows and grabbed the handles of the suspended pots. With a great heave, the contents of the two massive cauldrons were poured down onto the Woads. 

Screams of agony rose from the attackers, and those not immediately killed began to stagger backwards. Before they could get far, a guard from each of the pots had grabbed a burning brand out of the fires burning under their respective cauldrons and pitched them over the side of the wall, successfully igniting the oil. More screams reached the defenders ears as the flames licked at anything that had been doused by the oil. Soon, the flames had spread and ignited the dead grass of the field, rapidly consuming everything in their path. The soldiers withdrew, running away from the fast-moving flames. Cymbeline leaned over the side of the wall to make sure that they hadn’t inadvertently set the gate itself on fire; the cauldrons were positioned so that their contents shouldn’t splatter onto the gate itself, but there was always a possibility of that happening.

The defenders paused for a moment to survey the field in front of them. The wall of flame was driving their enemies back and leaving smoldering embers as it consumed the grass. The Woads seemed wary of approaching again, and Cymbeline took this opportunity to take stock of the field in front of her. Many of the bodies on the ground had caught fire—or at least their clothes had—and were successfully providing another line of defense for the wall, as the Woads seemed reluctant to trample their burning comrades. Many of the remaining warriors were still in retreat, flames licking at their feet and legs as they ran. A few decided to take their chances with the fire, but soon regretted it as the heat began to singe and burn them.

Cymbeline looked around at the men on the wall around her. “Take a breath. We’ll watch for them to come back.”

Clearly relieved, the guards and knights settled down to sit on the pathway of the Wall. Bedivere took the opportunity to check on his patients. “How’s your arm?” he asked Cymbeline after finishing with the guard.

“Not bad,” Cymbeline shrugged as Bedivere pulled the bloody cloth away from her shoulder.

“The bleeding’s slowed quite a bit,” Bedivere nodded. “You’ll live.”

“Fantastic,” Cymbeline rolled her eyes. “I was worried I wouldn’t make it. What with the severity of the wound and all.”

“Is now really the time for sarcasm, Cymbeline?” Bedivere teased.

“You started it,” she grinned.

Bedivere glanced towards the fort. “I hope everyone’s doing alright on that end of things.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Down at the other end of the wall, Branwyr sat down on the stone path that ran along the wall. She was bleeding from a cut on her cheek—thanks to a near miss from an enemy arrow—and her fingers were raw. She was almost out of arrows in her quiver. Beside her, Tristan and Lucan sunk to the stones, both boys clearly exhausted. All around them, guards and the other knights in training settled down to the cool stones, backs to the battlements behind them.

With the rush of flame that had followed the cascade of boiling oil from the great gate, Ysbadaddon and Morgana’s army had retreated, giving the defenders a much-needed respite. Branwyr took a deep breath and wrapped her arm around Tristan’s shoulders. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” the boy sighed deeply. “Just tired.

“Lucan?”

“I’m alright,” Lucan rested his head against the battlement behind him. His sand-colored hair was dripping with sweat and plastered to his forehead and cheeks. Branwyr doubted she looked any less worn.

“I’m going to check on the others. I’ll be back.” Branwyr rested a hand on each boy’s head briefly before slowly standing, peering over the Wall as she did so to make sure she wasn’t leaving herself open to an enemy’s lucky arrow. The dozens of other archers and guards on the Wall were also taking the chance to catch their breath, either sitting on the pathway of the Wall or leaning against the battlements that looked out over the northern field. Branwyr picked her way carefully through the unruly tangle of limbs and weapons, searching for the other knights-in-training.

She found Tyra and Sebille seated on either side of Kei, who was bleeding from a wound in his side. “Kei! Are you alright?” Branwyr called, hurrying to his side.

“Lucky shot,” Kei grinned sheepishly. “I wasn’t paying enough attention and didn’t get out of the way fast enough. It’s fine.”

“You should have a healer look at that,” Branwyr pulled the torn cloth of his tunic away to peer at the wound.

“Beds is down at the gate, and I haven’t seen any other healers around,” Kei argued. “I don’t have time to go find one.”

Branwyr paused, deliberating. “You’re right,” she agreed finally. “I’ll send Lucan down to look at it; he’s been training with Bedivere. He can at least bind it to help stop the bleeding.”

Kei nodded wearily as Branwyr turned to her sisters. “Are you both alright?”

“We’re fine,” Tyra nodded, yawning.

“Just tired,” Sebille grinned.

“Good,” Branwyr smiled at each of them in turn, then turned back to Kei. “Watch over them, please?”

“I will,” Kei nodded. “Even if I weren’t terrified of your mother, I would.”

Branwyr laughed and clapped him on the shoulder before rising and making her way back to Tristan and Lucan. “Lucan, Kei is injured. Can you go take a look at his wound? I know there isn’t much you can do, especially up here with no supplies, but just make sure it won’t kill him any time soon.”

Lucan nodded and peeled himself away from the stone, then made his way back the way Branwyr had come. “Tristan, I’m going to go find Griflet and Lancelot. Do you want to come along?”

Tristan stood wordlessly and followed his sister along the Wall. They found Griflet bounding up the stairs from the fort, bundles of arrows in his arms. “I thought we might need these,” he explained when he saw Branwyr.

“Pass them out to the archers first,” Bran nodded. She took a handful of shafts from one of the bundles before sending Griflet on his way.

Ganis and Lancelot were halfway to Cullwch’s position, at the end of the line that marked the defenders of the fort itself from Cullwch’s troops. “Lancelot!” Branwyr called as they approached, waving to her brother. Lancelot waved back and started to move towards his siblings.

“Ganis,” Branwyr greeted the captain of the guard. “How are things going at this end?”

“Well enough,” Ganis shrugged. “We had a few of them toss hooks up and try to climb the walls, but we took care of them right quick.”

Bran glanced over the Wall at the bodies scattered across the field. Many of them were still smoldering from the flames that had rushed out from the great gate. “We’ve taken a lot of them down, but we’ll have to do a lot better if we want to live to see another sunset,” she said grimly.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Bran and Tristan had just returned to their position and sat back down on the Wall when there was a cry from one of the lookouts. Bran jumped to her feet and scowled when she saw that Ysbadaddon’s line was beginning to creep towards the Wall again. “On your feet, Tris. They’re coming back.”

Tristan climbed back up as Lucan raced up beside them, looking positively wild as his overgrown curls settled into a halo around his head in the light of the rising sun. “Kei will be fine,” he told Branwyr as he readied his bow.

“Good; thank you,” Branwyr readied her own bow and then glanced up and down the line of archers on the Wall. Everyone looked exhausted, and rightfully so—it had been a long night. Branwyr wished she could think of something to say to bring them courage—Arthur or Guinevere or Cymbeline would know what to say, she thought—but settled for setting her gaze out on the advancing army. The Woads were making no attempt to hide their approach now, realizing that they had been spotted.

“Bran, look,” Tristan pointed out at the line. “Isn’t that the big man who came up last night with the crazy lady who wouldn’t stop shouting?”

Bran squinted out at the figure Tristan had indicated. Without a word, she raised her bow and smoothly nocked and drew a single arrow. Aiming carefully, she released the missile. Its fletching tickled her cheek as it flew off, and the bowstring brushed ever so slightly against her left forearm as it released.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Bedivere gaped as Ysbadaddon fell. “Did you see that?”

“Bit hard to miss,” Cymbeline didn’t take her eyes off of the motionless body.

“Bet it was Bran’s shot,” Bedivere grinned.

“Bet it was,” Cymbeline laughed.

The Woad army had frozen in place when their leader fell. Silence reigned; not even the morning birds were singing. Suddenly, an inhuman shriek rose from the back ranks of the army, and Cymbeline watched as a single figure detached itself from the rows of archers and began to move forwards.

“Nimue,” Bedivere guessed.

“Well, I doubt it’s Morgana,” Cymbeline replied.

“Look,” Dinadan pointed out at the ranks.

“They’re running,” Bedivere observed.

Indeed, as Nimue raced forward to her husband’s body, the warriors turned and ran back towards the forest. The ranks of archers turned and ran before the others reached them, and the field was soon empty of the living, with the exception of Nimue, who lay atop her husband’s body and continued to wail.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Dinadan said after a moment.

“Highly,” Cymbeline agreed.

“Cymbeline!” Daniel’s voice echoed down the wall as he ran towards them.

“What is it?” Cymbeline called back.

“They’ve climbed over the wall!” Daniel cried.

“Weapons,” Cymbeline snapped, dropping her bow and grabbing the heavy axe she had brought with her earlier. Beside her, Bedivere brandished his spiked flail, Dinadan drew a shining sword, and Dagonet hefted two handaxes, spinning them skillfully.

“Daniel, go back to Cullwch,” Cymbeline instructed the boy. “Have him and his men join us. We may need the help.”

Reluctantly, Daniel started running again, heading back towards the fort.

“Let us take them first,” Cymbeline called over her shoulder to the gate guards. “Pick off anyone that gets through.”

“Yes, ma’am!” the guards fell back, clustering behind the knights.

As the first Woad crept into view, Cymbeline uttered a loud cry and raced forward, Dagonet and Bedivere behind her, Dinadan in the rear. Cymbeline raced past the first Woad, ducking under a blow from the man’s club, and continued towards the rest of the raiding party. She heard the crash of Bedivere’s flail against the Woad’s club as she slammed directly into the next attacker with her shoulder, knocking him backwards into the next man. She brought her axe up and around and slammed it with all her strength into the head of the nearest Woad; it smashed into his head so hard that his skull shattered, splattering him, the man behind him, Cymbeline, and Dagonet with blood and brain matter.

As Cymbeline worked her axe free, Dagonet rushed past her, swinging one of his handaxes up to catch his opponent’s blade and the other into the man’s stomach. The Woad staggered backwards, and Dag pressed forward, swinging his axes into the man’s neck and torso. Dinadan pushed past the struggling pair and ran the next attacker through with his sword, shoving the body off of the Wall as he moved past.

Cymbeline finally gave up on her axe and drew her sickles, darting around the scuffling men to find an unengaged opponent. When she did, she ducked past him, as though making for the man following him, then turned and slashed both of her sickles across the first man’s hamstrings, crippling him. When he fell, she brought one sickle around his neck and cut his throat, bringing the other up to catch the next man’s sword. The impact was so hard that it sent a shockwave through her arm and into her injured shoulder, and she dropped the sickle with a cry of pain. She dodged the next swing barely, ducking so that it crashed into the Wall.

Before Cymbeline could stand, she heard a cry of pain from the Woad and looked up to find one of Dagonet’s axes buried in his shoulder. She grabbed her sickle from the stones at her feet and swung it upwards, slashing it across his stomach. The cut split nearly all the way across his stomach, and his innards began to tumble out onto the stones. The man groaned and fell to his knees, using the last of his strength on a wild swing of his sword. The tip of the weapon cut across Cymbeline’s face, cutting the skin from the middle of her forehead to the tip of her right eyebrow. She cried out and doubled forward, dropping a sickle to reach for the wound. Dully, she saw a hand lying on the stones next to her, but something seemed odd about it. Wiping the blood away from her eyes, she realized what it was: the hand was attached to nothing.

Cymbeline looked up to find Dagonet staring down in shock at his right arm, which now ended roughly halfway down the forearm.

“Dag!” Cymbeline shouted as the teenager fell to his knees, blood painting the stones beneath them. “Bedivere!” Cymbeline screamed for the healer, reaching out to grab Dag and keep him from falling over the Wall.

Another Woad went flying off of the Wall, Bedivere’s flail separating from the man’s head as he fell. “Dag!” Bedivere caught the boy and lowered him to the pathway. “Dinadan, I need a belt!” he called over his shoulder as he checked Dag’s wound. He spared a glance for Cymbeline and paused briefly. “Cym?”

“I’m fine,” she gasped. “Worry about Dag.”

“Here, Bedivere,” Dinadan offered a belt, stripped from one of the dead Woads, to the healer, who cinched it tightly around Dagonet’s severed arm, just below the elbow.

“The Woads,” Cymbeline stammered as Dinadan lifted her up and over the bodies blocking their way.

“Two left; they both ran. We’ll find them eventually.” Dinadan replied, setting Cymbeline on the pathway and looking at the bleeding gash on her head. “Doesn’t look too bad, but I’m no healer.”

“Dinadan, I need help,” Bedivere called, wrapping Dagonet’s injured arm over his shoulder. “Get him up.”

Dinadan left Cymbeline to help Bedivere. Cymbeline pressed herself back against the wall to allow the men to pass, then staggered after them. She dimly noticed the guards they had left over the gate rushing to help Dinadan and Bedivere with their burden as Cullwch and his men ran up behind them.

“What happened?” Cullwch demanded, moving to help Bedivere.

“Help Cymbeline,” Bedivere ordered, pushing past Cullwch and the men behind him.

Cullwch hurried to Cymbeline’s side and caught her as she began to fall, her head swimming. “Easy there,” Cullwch said, supporting her and guiding her towards the fort.

“You men,” Cymbeline stopped, forcing Cullwch to stop as well. “Stay here. Guard the gate, and watch for any more raiding parties or evidence the army is returning. If you see anything, blow the horn immediately.”

She barely heard the affirmatives from the guards as Cullwch began pulling her again towards the fort. She stumbled along beside him, hardly able to see through the blood still running down her face.


	13. Chapter 13

Gawain stared out across the waving grasslands of his homeland. The knights had just crested a hill, and could do nothing but gape at the great expanse of waving grass that was so distinctive to Sarmatia.

“So this is where you come from,” Arthur murmured softly.

Gawain spared him a glance and a smile. “Apparently.”

Arthur grinned and spurred his horse, leading the small convoy down into the reeds. Bors rode beside their king, for once silent as they grew nearer and nearer to the home he barely remembered. Galeschin, Ewan, and Lamorak rode side by side behind the monarch and Bors, while Galahad, Gawain, and Aggravaine brought up the rear.

Gawain spared a glance at Galahad beside him. “What do you think?”

“It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” Galahad grinned. “But I still can’t imagine it covered in snow.”

Gawain threw his head back and laughed, remembering the many conversations over the years in which the older knights insisted that Sarmatia had extremely snowy winters, while the younger knights were consistently unable to remember any sort of snow covering on the great plains.

“What’s so funny?” Grav asked, leaning forward to peer around his older brother.

“Nothing, really,” Gawain admitted. “Just remembering old friends.”

Grav smiled. “I see.”

“Which village should we reach first?” Galahad asked, looking at the plains around them as if he could hardly imagine finding a village anywhere in the long grasses.

“Bors’s, I think,” Gawain replied.

Grav shrugged. “Arthur said we would follow a Roman route, so as long as it’s the same one the Romans who took the lot of you followed, we should reach the villages in reverse order.”

“And I think Bors and Dagonet were from the last village we passed through,” Galahad agreed with Gawain.

“If we took the same route as you, we should be getting close, then,” Grav supplied. “I think we’ve travelled about as long as my group did between the last village and the port.”

“How can you possibly remember that after ten years?” Gawain asked his younger brother.

“I just do,” Grav laughed with a shrug. “I’ve always had a good memory.”

“Looks like you were right,” Galahad said as they crested another hill and saw a small village huddled in the distance.

The knights fanned out into a line on top of the hill, Arthur in the center. Gawain noted with a slight smile that his brother and the other younger boys had fallen into the habit just like the older knights did, as he found himself between Galeschin and Galahad.

“Home,” Bors’s murmured so softly that only Arthur and Lamorak, those on either side of him, heard the word.

“Let’s go,” Arthur said after a moment, spurring his horse down the hill. The knights followed suit, falling into line behind the king.

_ For someone who doesn’t want to be a leader, he sure is a natural _ , Gawain couldn’t help but think, another smile crossing his face as he fell in behind Galeschin.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

“Grandfather!”

Bors the Elder stood at the call, straightening up slowly. Much to his chagrin, the action was far more difficult than it used to be. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the shout; Bors saw his grandson racing towards him, eyes wild and hair flying behind him.

“What is it, lad?” the old man asked crossly, scowling. The boy had something of a predilection to exaggeration, something which had driven his grandfather half mad through the boy’s twenty years of life.

“Riders!” Elyan gasped, skidding to a halt by his grandfather’s side. “There are eight men in armor riding towards the village.”

“Romans?” Bors growled, reaching for the spear he always kept by his side.

“I don’t think so,” Elyan looked back over his shoulder. The dark patch on the hillside had separated into eight individual forms, even to Bors the Elder’s old eyes, and continued to grow closer. “They’re not wearing Roman armor,” Elyan continued belatedly. “It almost looks like the armor we wear.”

“Returning knights,” Bors the Elder nodded sagely. “Good,” he snapped, beginning to make towards the entrance towards the village. “Come along, boy,” he called over his shoulder. “Keep up! They’ve waited long enough; they don’t need to wait for you too.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

As the knights came up to the village, most of them fell back to allow Bors to take the lead, Arthur just behind him. They reigned in their horses, slowing to a walk as they hit the packed-dirt path that ran through the center of the village, partially to avoid trampling an old man and teenage boy who stood in the middle of the road.

“Stop!” the old man called authoritatively, if belatedly.

The knights traded bemused glances as they once again fanned out into a line, behind Arthur and Bors.

Arthur walked his horse forward to a few paces in front of the old man. “I am Artorius Castus, king of Al”—he was interrupted as the old man turned to the side, hawked mightily, and spat towards the nearest house.

“No Latin here, Roman,” the man glowered. “Speak Sarmatian, or nothing at all.”

Bors rolled his eyes and walked his horse forward. “Enough, old man,” he rumbled, speaking the language the man had requested—if slightly poorly. “Arthur here’s one of us.”

The old man narrowed his eyes and glared up at Bors. “Get down off yer horse and look an old man in the eyes.”

Grumbling, Bors dismounted. “I’m looking for someone,” he said. “I doubt he’s alive any longer, but I might as well ask. After that, we have news for the families of men taken twenty years ago.”

“Who are you looking for?” the boy stepped forward, interrupting a probably nasty retort from the old man.

“My father,” Bors said. “He was called Bors, and I was called after him.”

The knights watched as all of the color drained from the old man’s face. The boy looked equally shocked, but reached out to catch the old man as he staggered forwards, afraid that he was falling. The man pushed him aside and continued forward, arms outstretched towards Bors. The other knights hardly heard the words the man sobbed into the big knight’s shoulder: “My son.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Bors the Elder brought his son, Arthur, and the other knights back to his home. “Doesn’t look much different,” Bors chuckled, looking around.

“Why change something that’s just fine as it is?” Bors the Elder grumbled.

Arthur eyed up the boy who followed Bors the Elder like a shadow. He wasn’t tall, at least a solid inch or two shorter than Bors and Galahad, and he was slight, if muscular. He had long, curly, fair hair the color of straw and pale blue eyes set in tan, weathered skin.

“Your mother’s dead,” Bors the Elder continued, speaking over his shoulder to his son as he searched for something against the wall.

“So’s your other son,” Bors replied, staring around the room. “The others too.” There was a pause, and then: “Dag nearly made it back.”

Silence fell again as Bors the Elder bustled about. He asked no questions about the deaths of the others, and Bors didn’t ask about the death of his mother. The boy stood awkwardly, alternating glances between both Bors, with a few subtly cast towards Arthur and the knights.

“Out,” Bors the Elder ordered suddenly, turning around, his arms now laden with a variety of small bundles. He herded the knights out of the hut, followed by the boy, who broke off and headed for a pile of firewood near the hut. Bors the Elder set about separating the packets while the boy returned and worked on building a small fire. “And who are the rest of ye?” Bors the Elder didn’t look up when he asked the question.

“I am Arthur Castus,” Arthur spoke first.

“Ah, yes, the Roman,” Bors the Elder sneered.

“I was your sons’ commander in Britain,” Arthur continued.

“When we were freed, Arthur invited us to stay in Britain,” Bors said, then paused. “I didn’t think I had anyone left here, so I did.”

“Well, your son might’ve had something to say about that,” Bors the Elder grumbled. The boy suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

“My… what?” Bors looked incredibly confused.

“Elyan,” Bors the Elder nodded towards the boy building the fire.

“He’s…” Bors gaped at the boy.

“Claire’s boy,” Bors the Elder rolled his eyes. “The one she was carrying when you left.”

“But—you said”—Bors stammered. “I got a message from you saying she’d died in childbirth.”

“And?” Bors the Elder said expectantly.

“There was no word of the child, so I thought…” Bors continued to stare at the boy, who squirmed slightly.

“You thought he died too,” Bors the Elder finished. “Well, he didn’t.” He reached over and smacked Bors upside the head. “And what about your father?”

“I figured you’d be dead by now, old man,” Bors growled.

“Well, I’m not!” Bors the Elder snapped. “How do you feel about that?”

Bors’s face softened. “Glad.”

Bors the Elder nodded, apparently satisfied. “And the rest of you; Sarmatian?” He glanced up to see their nods, and nodded himself. “You all stayed with your commander when you were freed?”

“Actually,” Galeschin said, “some of us were stationed in Gaul, not Britain. We went there to find our brothers who had been taken before us, and found Arthur instead. Well, Grav found his brother.” He grinned at Gawain and Aggravaine. “The rest of us found a place we wanted to make into a home.”

“So what are you doing here?” Bors the Elder grumbled. “If this Britain and Arthur are so wonderful, why come back?”

“Our families deserve to know what happened to us, and the families of those we lost deserve the same,” Ewan replied.

Bors the Elder nodded slowly. “So now what will you do?”

“We’ve all decided to return to Britain with Arthur and the others,” Galeschin explained.

“I’m going back too,” Bors said sheepishly. “I have… a family there.”

“A family?” Bors the Elder scoffed. “With who, a Roman whore?”

“No,” Bors growled darkly. “And if she were, it wouldn’t matter.”

“So, you fell in love again after hearing about Claire? How long did it take you, a week?” Bors the Elder retorted. “You never were much of a faithful one.”

Arthur thought Bors might explode, his face grew so red, but he calmed down quickly. “It was a mistake, at first. Over a year after we were there, I slept with her one night. I hadn’t planned for it to go past that, but then she was with child, and… well, the more time we spent together, the more I fell for her. We got married after I was freed.”

“The children were certainly happy about that,” Galahad remarked cheekily.

“There was more than one?” Elyan said, speaking for the first time.

“Uh… Eleven,” Bors admitted.

“Thirteen,” Gawain corrected.

“That can’t be right,” Bors furrowed his brow, concentrating.

“Well, there will be by the time we get back,” Gawain amended.

“Oh, right,” Bors nodded.

“Thirteen children?” Elyan gaped.

Bors the Elder opened his mouth to comment, but thought better of it after a wicked glare from his son. “Congratulations,” he said snidely.

“They’re good kids,” Bors shrugged. “Well, mostly.”

“Gilly’s not,” Galahad teased.

“Or Lancelot,” Gawain added.

“Or”—Galeschin started

“Enough!” Bors interrupted, glaring at each of the others in turn. “They’re good fighters, at least.”

“Can’t deny that,” Grav nodded.

Bors the Elder nodded abruptly. “Well, at least you’re training them up right.”

“You know, you’re welcome to come back with me and meet them,” Bors said, eyeing his father up. “Both of you,” he added, turning to Elyan.

“Why would we want to go to this ‘Britain’ just to meet your brats?” Bors the Elder grumbled.

“Britain isn’t really so bad,” Galahad piped up. “I mean, it’s wet, and muddy, and cold, and the sun never seems to stay out for more than a few hours.”

“And the Woads are still trying to kill us,” Gawain added.

“But the beer’s decent,” Grav said.

“The women are attractive… well, some of them are,” Ewan said.

“And the king isn’t all bad,” Bors grinned at Arthur. “He’s definitely someone worth following.”

“Not to mention, family aren’t something to take for granted,” Grav said softly, trading glances with his brother. “Once you’ve found them, you don’t want to lose them again.”

Silence fell again over the group as Bors the Elder added ingredients to a pot of water that Elyan had set to boil over the fire. “And I suppose you’re definitely going back?” Bors the Elder said.

“Yes,” Bors said firmly.

“I’d like to go,” Elyan said shyly. Every pair of eyes around the fire turned to stare at him. “There’s nothing for me here,” he said defensively. “There’s almost no-one left in the village. Pretty much every girl around is already spoken for. Grandfather will be dead soon—ow!” He was too slow to avoid a hard slap on the head from Bors the Elder, and the knights hid smiles. “If I stay here, one day the Romans will take me to serve them. If I come with you, I get to choose who I serve—and I get a family out of it. That is,” he looked shyly at Bors, “if you’ll take me.”

Bors’s face softened. “Of course. Van’ll love you. Bran’ll kick your ass and decide she loves you. The little ones might try to kill you, but only because they’re testing you. They’ll love having another big brother to torment.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be the other way around?” Grav wondered.

“Not with Bors and Vanora’s kids,” Gawain said solemnly.

“When we get back, ask Dag or Lancelot to show you their scars,” Galahad added.

“Or Branwyr,” Bors added. “Hers is the worst.”

“I think anyone who knows those children has scars from them,” Arthur laughed.

“Cymbeline still has teethmarks on her left forearm from when Corentin tried to take a bite out of it a few years ago,” Gawain said.

“He broke a tooth doing that,” Bors put in.

Aggravaine and Elyan both looked suddenly terrified.

“They’re good kids, really,” Bors asserted.

“Just… vicious…” Gawain laughed.

“Sometimes,” Bors said. He looked at his father. “I think they’d love to have a grandfather, too.”

“Will they try to kill me?” Bors the Elder asked sarcastically.

“Probably not,” Bors shrugged. “But I make no promises for the little ones. They’re unpredictable.”

Bors the Elder traded a glance with Elyan, before nodding slowly. “Then I suppose we’ll both be coming with you. After all, we can’t leave those kids without some sort of a good influence.”


	14. Chapter 14

The knights stayed with Bors the Elder and Elyan that night, then set off for the next village, leaving Bors behind and promising to return once they had visited the other villages they were taking news to.

Galahad practically buzzed in his saddle as they rode, ecstatic to be finally returning home. He rode several paces ahead of the rest of the knights, eager to be the first to catch sight of his childhood home. Gawain and Arthur followed him, mildly amused at their friend’s enthusiasm, with the four younger knights strung out behind them.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Gawain and Arthur crested a hill and found Galahad sitting still on his horse, staring ahead. They followed his gaze, but it took a long moment for them to realize what he had seen.

Not far ahead of them, the plains broke into long, bare patches of dirt. All that grew there were weeds, rather than the long grasses, although the grasses had begun to infringe on the borders of the old fields. A path, set apart from the fields and plains with a border of stones along its packed dirt, stretched between the fields and into what had once been a village.

Every building of the farming village was a black-burned shell. Most of them had been burned down to low rings of blackened materials, although a few still stood partially. From the distance, Gawain and Arthur could see bumps in the soot-, dirt-, and dust-covered stretch of the village that sickened them.

“What happened here?” Ewan murmured, shocked, staring out over the husk of the village.

Without a word, Galahad spurred his horse, and galloped towards his home. “Galahad!” Gawain called after him before spurring his own mount and following.

Gawain followed his friend through the village to a specific half-crumbled structure. As he approached, he saw Galahad slide off of his horse and fall to his knees before the house, head in his hands and shoulders shaking. Gawain reigned in his horse and dismounted, approaching his friend slowly.

“Galahad?” he asked softly, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“It’s gone,” Galahad sobbed, trembling under Gawain’s hand. “Everything… Everyone… It’s gone.”

Gawain knelt beside Galahad, hand still resting on his shoulder, and looked up at the shell of what he guessed had been his friend’s childhood home. “Not everything,” he said. Galahad looked up at him, face streaked with tears. “You’re still here,” Gawain said softly. “You’re still here, and you remember, and as long as you do, it’s not really gone.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

When Gawain and Galahad returned to the town center, leading their horses, they found Arthur and the young knights carefully picking through the rubble there. In the distant fields, they could just barely see Galeschin and Lamorak digging, while Arthur, Aggravaine, and Ewan collected bones and carried them out to the graves. Silently, Galahad joined them, while Gawain found a shovel and began helping with the graves.

It took the rest of the day and all of the next to collect all of the bodies and bones and dig graves for each of them. In the end, they had no way of being sure that the bodies were complete, or that the bones in each grave actually all belonged to the same body, but there were over five score graves in the old fields, each marked with a piece of charred wood.

On the second night in the burned village, Galahad and Gawain sat staring into the sad little grass fire as it flickered, the other knights asleep around them.

“I always thought it would be here when I came back,” Galahad said so softly that Gawain almost didn’t hear him.

Gawain nodded thoughtfully. “We all did.”

“Except for Bors,” Galahad snorted. “He thought that everyone he cared about was dead, but they were actually waiting for him to come home. I thought that everyone I loved was waiting for me to come home, but they were actually dead.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

In the morning, the knights set out again, leaving the burned village behind. They were all covered in soot and dirt, having found that the village’s only well had been filled with dirt and stones by whoever destroyed it. Gawain rode beside Galahad at the rear of their convoy for most of the morning, both men completely silent. Galahad stared stoically ahead, refusing to look back and see the scorched husk of his home again. Gawain snuck quick glances at his friend as they rode, watching his face for any sign of emotion.

“I’m fine,” Galahad said suddenly.

“No-one said you weren’t,” Gawain replied.

“Then stop staring at me,” Galahad snapped.

“I’m not staring,” Gawain protested.

“Well, stop it anyways,” Galahad grumbled. “It’s annoying.”

Gawain arched an eyebrow, but fell silent, letting his friend grieve in peace.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

“This should be Tristan’s village, if I remember right,” Gawain told Arthur, riding up beside the monarch.

The mountain had come into view just before midday. The plains had mostly leveled out, sloping almost imperceptibly so that they couldn’t tell that their altitude had changed until they looked behind them and saw that their path through the long grass cut away at an angle. The mountain loomed over the mostly-flat plains, surrounded by low hills that grew in stature the closer they got to the mountain.

They followed a winding track through a maze of boulders, cliffs, and low hills. It finally ended between two high cliffs, the ground between them rising up to end in a large open area that had been cleared of boulders to allow for the growth of a sprawling village. A large house, the closest thing they had seen to a manor or villa—although it almost resembled a Woad gathering hall, rather than a Roman architectural design—sat in the back of the village on the highest point, separate from all of the others.

“That’s different,” Arthur nodded towards the hall. “We haven’t seen any other buildings like that in Sarmatia.”

Gawain shook his head. “The only other time I can remember seeing one is when we came here when I was a child. If I remember right, Tristan’s uncle was some sort of king of a large tribe, so I’m guessing that’s his home.”

“Then we’ll go there first,” Arthur said decisively.

They rode slowly through the sprawling village. It was the largest settlement they had seen since coming to Sarmatia, at least several times the size of Bors’s home town. The village was quiet, although lively, and the people the knights passed stared at them distrustfully. Gawain wondered to himself if they were wary of all strangers, or if this was simply a reaction to how Roman Arthur looked.

At the top of the hill, the knights were met by a woman with golden hair that fell all the way to her hips. There were strands of shimmering silver mixed in with the gold, paling its overall color; she had pale green eyes set into an even paler face. It took a moment before Gawain realized, with a start, that she reminded him immensely of Kahedan. Arthur and Gawain dismounted and stood before her, while the others remained a few paces back.

“Who are you?” the thin woman demanded, her voice full of equal parts defensiveness and combativeness.

“I am Arthur Castus,” Arthur bowed slightly.

“Gawain,” the bronze-haired knight added, following suit with a bow of his own.

“I am Iseult,” the woman inclined her head towards the two men. “What brings you to our village?”

“That may take some explanation,” Arthur said.

“Then explain,” Iseult arched an eyebrow.

“I was the commander of a Roman fort in a land called Britain,” Arthur began. “Twenty years ago, twenty-seven men and boys from Sarmatia were brought to the fort and placed under my command.”

“Twenty years ago?” Iseult repeated.

“Yes,” Arthur confirmed. “Were there boys taken from this village around then?”

“Yes,” Iseult looked down at the ground. “Three. A boy named Durnure, my brother Kahedan, and… my late husband’s nephew. Tristan.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, they were brought to Britain.”

“But, as I don’t see anyone I recognize among the men with you, I must assume that none of them survived their term in your service,” Iseult said.

“That is correct,” Arthur said. “I am sorry to bring you such harsh news, but we thought it would be best to give you the news we had, so that you could know the fates of your loved ones.”

“I am grateful,” Iseult smiled sadly. “Please, come in,” she added. “You have come this far to bring us this news; you will be welcome in my home tonight.”

“Thank you,” Arthur bowed again.

“Tell your other men to come forward,” Iseult looked at the other knights behind them. “I will send someone to show you to the stables, and have food prepared for you.” She glanced at the sooty, dirty knights. “And I will have baths drawn.”

“We would appreciate that,” Gawain laughed.

Iseult gave them another smile, this one with less sadness behind it, and disappeared back into the house. Arthur turned and waved Galahad and the younger knights forward.

“The Lady Iseult has offered us the shelter of her home for the night,” Arthur told the others. “They will show us to stables for the horses, and she has offered us dinner and baths.”

“Both of those will be appreciated,” Galeschin laughed, dismounting. The others followed suit as two boys, hardly older than thirteen, if that, appeared out of the manor.

“Iseult told us to take you to the stables,” one of the boys said.

“We will follow you,” Arthur smiled down at the boys, who grinned shyly and started off for a nearby building. Inside, all but three of the stalls were empty, leaving plenty of room for the knights’ horses.

“Where are all of the horses?” Aggravaine asked one of the boys as the knights stabled their mounts.

“The Romans take them, sometimes,” the boy replied, staring sadly at one of the stalls. “And last winter, there was a fire, and some of them escaped.”

Aggravaine nodded and continued to brush his horse down. “And the three that are here?”

“One belongs to Iseult, one belonged to King Mark before he died, and one belongs to Meirchion,” the boy replied. “The Romans don’t take their horses.”

Aggravaine nodded again. Once the knights were finished with their horses, the boys took them back to the manor, where a serving girl whisked them away to a room with several large, steaming tubs in it. “We didn’t have enough baths for all of you, so you’ll have to take turns,” she said apologetically.

“Thank you,” Arthur said kindly. “We appreciate it.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Once they were done, the knights joined Iseult in the main room of the hall. They found her with a woman with bright red hair and a young boy who looked like a very young version of the knights’ old friend Kahedan. Iseult greeted the knights and invited them to sit at the long table in the center of the room.

“Dinner is almost ready,” she said as they settled down. “This is Brangien, my stewardess, and Meirchion, my son.”

“My lady,” Arthur nodded politely to Brangien, then smiled at the boy. “Hello there.”

“Hello,” the boy said shyly. “What is your name?”

“I am Arthur,” the king replied.

“And you?” the boy looked at the next knight.

“Galahad,” he replied.

The boy, disguising his immense curiosity behind interested politeness, asked the name of each of the knights, but Iseult stopped him when he started to ask further questions.

They ate in silence, the air tense around them. Once the food was finished, Iseult bid them good night and the knights followed Brangien out of the room. Arthur paused in the doorway and looked back at Iseult. Her son had left earlier on, sent to bed by his mother as soon as his food was finished, so Iseult was alone in the room. Arthur saw her staring at a large chair—not a throne by any stretch, but clearly the seat of power in this town—set on a dais against the far wall.

“Lady Iseult,” he said.

The woman jumped and whirled around, and Arthur swore he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Is there something you need, sir?” she asked stiffly.

“You haven’t asked me how it was your brother or the others died,” Arthur said.

“I’m not so sure I want to know,” Iseult murmured, looking down at the floor.

“One day, you will,” Arthur said. “And so will your son, I think. I know you’ve seen it too; he looks just like Kahedan.”

Iseult gave the king another of her sad smiles as her tears finally spilled over. “He does, doesn’t he?” She sighed deeply and sat down again at the table. “Tell me, then.”

Arthur sat down across from her and folded his hands together on the table in front of him. “Durnure was the first of the boys from this village to fall,” he began. “It was four years after he came to Britain—he was seventeen. He was a good shot and good with the sword, but he was best with a spear—the only one of all twenty-seven boys who was a natural with that. I sent him and a few of the others with a group of Roman soldiers for an extended patrol. Three days later, the Romans came back with only two of the knights I had sent with them. Durnure and another of the knights—an older boy name Bruin—were laid over their horses. The survivors told me that a bear attacked them in the night. Durnure was on watch, and the bear tore into him before he knew it was there.”

Iseult grimaced, but nodded slowly. “I will make sure to inform his family.” She paused. “What of Kahedan?”

“Kahedan died five years after Durnure, nine years after they came to Britain,” Arthur replied. “We were ambushed by Woads—some of the natives of Britain—while we were patrolling the wall. He was scratched by one of their blades—it hardly even broke the skin, so we thought he was fine. That night, back at the fort, he fell ill. Very ill. Tristan dragged him to the healer, who said that the blade must have been poisoned. He did everything he could, but… Kahedan died before nightfall.”

“Did he… Did he die alone?” Iseult asked softly.

“No,” Arthur shook his head. “All of us sat with him at some point during that time, and Tristan hardly left his side. And there was a woman—Camille—who Kahedan had become close to. She was there when he died.”

“Good,” Iseult sniffled. “I am glad he was not alone.” Silence fell for a few moments, broken only by Iseult’s sniffles, before she spoke again. “And what of Tristan.”

Arthur didn’t answer immediately. “Tristan survived his term,” he said finally. “He received his papers, freeing him to return home. He even started to ride for the port, along with the other knights who survived. But… There was a Saxon hoard approaching the fort. Thousands of them. It was a hopeless battle. There were a few dozen Breton villagers, maybe double that number of Woads, and myself who stayed behind to fight the Saxons.”

The king paused again. “I was looking out over the Saxon army, on the other side of the wall that divides Britain in half, when suddenly my knights were at my side. Gawain told me later that Tristan was one of the first to decide to come back, when they heard the drums of the Saxons.”

“Then he died in battle?” Iseult asked.

“He challenged the Saxons’ commander,” Arthur nodded. “He was outmatched—somehow. I don’t think I believed it had been possible for Tristan to be outmatched until I saw his body later.

Iseult sobbed quietly, her tears dripping onto the table. “Thank you,” she said thickly after a long pause. “I thought I didn’t want to know, but… somehow, it makes it better.” She looked up at him. “They all died good deaths.”

“As good as any death could be,” Arthur agreed, tears pricking at his own eyes.

“Thank you,” Iseult repeated.

Arthur said nothing, but stood and bowed his head. He started towards the corridor, but stopped and turned back when he reached the door. “If you ever want to leave this place, you will be welcome in Britain. Your brother and Tristan are buried there.”

Iseult smiled wanly. “My husband and the father of my son is buried here.” She shook her head and stood. “No, I will stay in Sarmatia. It is the land of my father, and his father before him. It is the land of my son. With Kahedan… and Tristan… gone, I have nothing beyond my son. I will stay with him.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, for anyone who's read The Stories We Haven't Heard, you maybe might have noticed that in the very first chapter ("Gawain") I mentioned Cynan's cousin "Ywaine". That's Ewan's classic name from Arthurian legends, but I totally forgot that I had referred to him as that at all ever. I chose Ewan because it's less similar to Gawain, and I thought that would make things a little less confusing. Just wanted to put that out there in case anyone else had noticed; I'll probably go back and edit "Gawain" at some point so that it just says Ewan instead of Ywaine.

Once again, the knights set off in the morning. They bid Iseult and Merichion farewell, mounted their horses, and set off on the winding road out of the town. Aggravaine rode up beside Arthur and Gawain. “Our village will be next,” he said, anticipation clear in his deep blue eyes.

“How long do think it will take us to reach it?” Arthur asked, already trusting the young knight’s memory.

“It took us about four days to reach this village from ours last time,” Grav replied. “But we were travelling slower. We had boys and even some of the Roman soldiers on foot. I think that we can make it in about two, depending how long we camp at night.”

Arthur nodded. “And once we get there..?”

“Once we get there, let us go in first,” Grav replied decisively. “Me, Ewan, and Lamorak. Gawain too, if he wants.” He shot a side glance at his older brother.

Gawain stared off towards the horizon. “I’m not sure yet.”

Over the next two days, the knights rode through every hour of daylight. At night, they burned piles of grass before eating meager suppers of their carefully-rationed provisions. In the morning, they ate similarly meager breakfasts before mounting up and riding again.

The sun was just beginning to set, darkening the sky into the third night, when they saw the third village. It was smaller than Tristan’s but larger than Bors’s, the huts clustered around a wide but shallow stream with several small trees popping up along its banks.

Aggravaine nudged his brother in the ribs and pointed towards one of the huts set slightly away from the village, near the small stream that wound along that side of the settlement. It had once been a small, round structure like those in the rest of the village—and most of the other homes they had seen—but had clearly been added onto since it had originally been built. “Home,” Grav grinned toothily at his brother.

Gawain nodded, but remained silent.

“Come on,” Grav waved at Ewan and Lamorak.

“We’ll meet you in the morning,” Arthur said. “Galahad, Galeschin, and I will camp outside of the village.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Gawain decided.

“No you won’t,” Galahad materialized at his friend’s side. “You’re not going to wait until morning to see your family again. You’re going tonight.”

Gawain narrowed his eyes at Galahad, trying to come up with a reason to spend the night out camping, but couldn’t seem to do so.

“Come on,” Grav was still grinning as he nudged his brother again.

Wordlessly, Gawain followed along behind Grav, Lamorak, and Ewan, allowing the younger men to pull ahead of him. As they neared the village, the world seemed to fade away; all he could see was the backs of the knights in front of him; all he could hear was the sound of his horse’s hooves. He remained silent as he followed them through the village, hardly noticing the curious stares of the villagers that they passed. Part way through the village, Ewan, with a grin and a wave, split off from the others, heading for his own home. Gawain continued to follow Grav and Lamorak as they made for the hut by the stream.

As they crossed the stream, the door to the hut opened, and a figure emerged. Gawain felt his heart drop as the figure solidified into a woman’s shape. Grav and Lamorak spurred their horses faster, but Gawain held back.

When the woman saw them approaching, she screamed and dropped the bucket she had been holding. Lamorak dismounted and pulled her into a great hug, which she returned. Even from the distance, Gawian could hear her sobbing. Another woman soon exited as well. There was another shriek, and she pulled Grav into a hug. Gawain dismounted and slowly led his horse forward, his heart pounding in his ears.

“We never thought you’d return,” Morgause was saying tearfully, holding Grav’s face in her hands.

“You were gone for so long,” the other woman, her arm wrapped tightly around Lamorak’s shoulders, added. “But it hasn’t been fifteen years yet. Did the Romans release you early?”

“Yes,” Lamorak nodded. “They were withdrawing from Gaul—where we were stationed—and released us from our service after just over ten years.”

“And it took you that long to make it back to us?” the younger woman teased, pinching Lamorak.

“Well, we made a stop first,” Grav grinned, turning back towards Gawain and waving his older brother forward.

Reluctantly, Gawain dropped his horse’s reigns and stepped forward, leaving the comforting shape of the beast behind. At the sight of him, Morgause went white, her hands dropping to her sides. She took an unsteady step forward, then another, and another, until she was standing directly in front of her oldest son, looking up into his face. “Gawain?” she whispered, lifting a trembling hand to brush his cheek.

Gawain nodded numbly. He could feel the tears beginning to spill from his eyes and run down his cheeks, but he remained silent, taking in the sight of his mother’s face—a face he’d never expected to see again. He hardly noticed the others spilling from the hut until a pair of strong arms were throw around his shoulders. A grinning face with wide blue eyes and a copper-colored beard was in front of him, snapping him back to reality.

“Gawain!” Gaheris beamed, hugging his oldest brother tightly. Behind him, Aggravaine, was embracing a younger boy, also with copper-colored curls. Two boys with heavy, dark hair were greeting Lamorak similarly, a tall, stocky, proud-looking man that Gawain vaguely recognized as Lamorak and Tor’s father Pellinore stood behind them.

“Gaheris?” Gawain turned his attention back to the young man in front of him, his own face breaking out into a grin. “You got bigger,” he teased.

“So did you,” Gaheris laughed, embracing the knight again.

“Gawain, this is Gareth,” Aggravaine pulled the youngest boy forward. Gareth smiled awkwardly, then held out his hand towards Gawain.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the boy said softly.

“You as well,” Gawain nodded. He reached out to take Gareth’s hand, but pulled him into a big hug instead.

“Come on,” Aggravaine grinned, grabbing Gawain by the arm and pulling him towards the dark-haired boys with Pellinore and Lamorak. “This is Percival,” he pointed towards the youngest boy, who looked about the same age as Gareth, “and that’s Aglovale, who you might remember,” he pointed towards the middle of the three boys, “and that’s their sister Dindrane.”

“Even if you don’t remember me, I remember you,” Dindrane grinned, leaning forward to hug Gawain. “Welcome home.”

Gawain nodded mutely, staring around the large family.

“Come on, you’ll scare the boy away,” Pellinore said gruffly, reaching out to clap Gawain on the shoulder. “Let’s go inside.”

“You’re just in time for dinner,” Morgause said, leading the way back into the hut. She turned to the cooking fire, leaving the men of the family to settle down elsewhere in the hut.

“It’s just like I remember,” Grav said softly to Gawain, looking around and smiling.

“It is,” Gawain agreed.

“You look ready to bolt out of here,” Aglovale plunked himself down on Gawain’s other side. “I wouldn’t blame you. It gets crazy around here.”

Gawain managed a smile. “I remember. I remember you too, a little. You were always in trouble.”

Aglovale laughed. “I was what, four when you left? How much trouble can a four-year-old get in?”

“Plenty,” Grav leveled a mock glare at the younger man. “I remember that well enough too.”

Aglovale laughed and put up his hands in surrender. “If you say so. I don’t remember much of that.”

Gawain laughed slightly and felt himself relax in the surroundings that were both foreign and familiar at the same time.

“So, Grav says he was in Gaul; where were you stationed?” Gaheris leaned around Aglovale to look Gawain in the eye.

“Britain,” Gawain replied.

“Bah,” Pellinore huffed. “Awful, dingy, wet island full of wildlings that wear nothing but blue paint and bits of wool cloth.”

“You were stationed there too?” Gawain asked.

“Me and your father, boy,” Pellinore nodded, puffing on a pipe he had produced out of nowhere.

“Who was your commander?” Gawain asked.

“Some Roman arsehole,” Pellinore growled. “Something-or-other Castus. Good man, I suppose.”

“My commander was his son, then, I suppose,” Gawain said. “Artorius. Another good man.”

“He is,” Grav agreed, nodding his head so his bronze curls bounced. “He came back with us just so he could give the families of his dead knights closure.”

“You brought a Roman back with you?” Pellinore arched an eyebrow.

“Half-Roman,” Gawain found himself saying. “Arthur’s mother was from Britain.”

“Bah,” Pellinore grunted. “Those lot are about as bad as the Romans. And the Woads are worse!”

“I know a few Woads who might argue that,” Gawain replied.

“You what?” Pellinore nearly dropped his pipe.

“Arthur made it his mission to bring peace to Britain,” Gawain explained. “After the Romans left five years ago, he actually started to succeed. He brought the Woads and Bretons together to defend the island from Saxon invaders, and managed to broker peace between most of the tribes north of the Wall.”

“I’ve seen it,” Grav piped up. “I never would have guessed that half of the people I met in Britain were deadly enemies of the other half only five years ago.”

“Most of the trouble we have now is from Roman criminals and deserters who still live on the island,” Gawain explained. “Up north, there are a few Woad tribes that are highly opposed to the idea of a half-Roman king, but they don’t give us much trouble. Merlin keeps them mostly in check.”

“Merlin?” Aglovale asked.

“’We’?” Pellinore asked.

“Merlin is a Woad chieftain,” Gawain explained. “We spent pretty much our entire term in Britain fighting him and his followers, but he was the first Woad to agree to peace with Arthur. It was his army that helped us fight off the Saxons.”

“’We’?” Pellinore repeated again, his face dark.

Gawain paused. “Arthur was more than a commander to us,” he said finally. “He was our brother. To some of us, he was almost a father—although Bors was more of a father to all of us than Arthur. He was able to bring out the best in all of us.”

Pellinore growled, his face growing even darker. “He was a Roman. And your commander. He was no more a brother or a father to you than any other Roman.”

“You’re wrong,” Gawain shook his head. “Arthur isn’t like the other Romans. I don’t know if it was his Breton mother or Pelagius—a religious man that he respected—that made him so different, but he is. He believes in equality over anything else. He thinks that no man has the right to rule over another. He was chosen by the Bretons and Woads and Romans alike to be king in Britain when the Romans left, and it took quite a bit of convincing to get him to agree to take that position, but Britain is better off for it.”

“They’ve brainwashed you,” Pellinore scoffed.

“Pellinore, if you met Arthur you’d understand,” Grav spoke up. “I’ve only known him for a few months, and I agree with everything Gawain has said. Arthur is a great man, and a great king.”

Pellinore simply shook his head and resumed his puffing on his pipe.

“Grav, you said that you came home five years early because the Romans released you early, right?” Gaheris said suddenly.

“That’s right,” Grav nodded.

“But, Gawain, you’re five years late,” Gaheris turned to his oldest brother. “Did the Romans make you stay longer?”

Gawain paused before replying. “No. They released us on time, five years ago. The five of us who survived, anyways.”

“Only five of you made it?” Gaheris gaped.

“Out of how many?” Aglovale asked.

“Twenty-seven,” Gawain replied. “There should have been at least six of us, but the bishop who brought us our papers forced us north of the Wall for one final mission before he would give them to us, and Dagonet died there, fighting the Saxons. A few days later, we were heading for the coast with all of the Romans who were evacuating, but Arthur stayed behind to fight the Saxons with the Woads and Bretons. We weren’t far away when the Saxons reached the wall, and we all decided that the right thing to do was to go back and fight with Arthur. Two more of us fell there, Lancelot and Tristan.”

“So only three out of twenty-seven actually survived?” Gareth’s blue eyes were wide.

“Yes,” Gawain nodded grimly. “And we all chose then to stay in Britain. Bors had a family there, after all—eleven children at that point—and Galahad and I couldn’t imagine living a life anywhere but there. We’d both been there for so long; I was ten when I got to Britain, and Galahad was twelve. Coming back to Sarmatia was just so foreign.”

“So you just stayed?” Gaheris cocked his head to the side, a slight smile playing at his lips.

“Yes,” Gawain said simply.

“What do you do there now?” Aglovale asked.

“We’re still knights to Arthur,” Gawain shrugged. “We’re helping him try to bring peace to Britain. And we’re building real lives for ourselves there now.”

“Gawain has a wife there,” Grav piped up.

“You what?” Pellinore choked on the smoke from his pipe, earning him a worried glance from Morgause.

“Not a wife,” Gawain corrected.

“Wait, really?” Grav looked confused. “I thought”—

“We’re not there yet,” Gawain flushed.

“Oh,” Grav sagged slightly. “I really thought you were married.”

“Well, it took Bors and Vanora sixteen years and eleven children to get married,” Gawain retorted. “Cymbeline and I have known each other for six years—or less, really—and we weren’t even together until two or three years ago.”

“Is she Roman?” Gaheris asked.

“Her name’s Cymbeline?” the dark look had returned to Pellinore’s face.

“She’s Woad,” Gawain admitted. “And yes, her name’s Cymbeline.”

“I knew a Woad king by the name of Cymbeline,” Pellinore had a wicked gleam in his eyes now. “We saw to his death, and that of his oldest son. Could never find the other two, though. I guess that’s where your bitch came from.”

It took a great effort on Gawain’s part to keep from slapping the old man across the face; as it was, Grav looked ready to restrain his older brother if it was called for. “I suppose so,” Gawain said through gritted teeth.

“If you have a girl in Britain,” Gaheris said slowly, “does that mean you’re not staying here?”

Gawain took a deep breath. “No, I’m not.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, there are several notes I have to make on this chapter. First off, you AL buffs out there may notice that I've switched Elaine of Benoic and Elaine/Helaine of Corbenic, sort of, in that legends-wise, it's Elaine/Helaine who marries Lancelot and mothers Galahad, while Elaine of Benoic is Lancelot's mother (and the sister of Evaine, who is mother of Bors the Younger). Nentres was married to Elaine of Garlot, Arthur's half sister and Morgana and Morgause's sister. Persides, on the other hand, was married to yet another Elaine-Elaine the Peerless. There are literally at least 6 Elaines in Arthurian Legend, no kidding (for those keeping count, the one I haven't mentioned is Elaine of Astolat, AKA the Lady of Shalott).
> 
> Another note is that I got a little confused about the location of Roman provinces, and misplaced Gaul/Gallia a tad. I thought it was a bit more north, but that's more into Germania, according to the maps I pulled up via Bing this time around. So let's just say that Galeschin, Grav, and co. spent at least the last portion of their service term in Germania Inferior, which is the northernmost part of Gaul. According to these maps.
> 
> Also, the first three sections of this chapter were somehow never published on FFN??? I'm not really sure how that happened, exactly, but here they are, for the first time ever!!! Although, I'll also be publishing them there now.

Supper had been tense and awkward after Gawain had admitted his intentions to return to Britain. He remained quiet for most of the meal, leaving the talking to his brothers, stepbrothers, and Dindrane. Morgause was silent as well, seemingly despairing at the idea of getting her oldest child back just to lose him again. Pellinore seemed to be silently seething at the idea of anyone actually  _ wanting _ to return to Britain.

That night, Gawain had crawled into the little alcove he had once shared with both of his brothers. Now, he and Gaheris could just barely fit inside, and their feet stuck out into the common room of the hut.

“You’re really going to leave us again?” Gaheris said softly long after Gawain had thought he had fallen asleep.

“I am,” Gawain murmured. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. You could come with me.”

“Why?” Gaheris asked. “We’re fine here.”

“Britain isn’t really so bad,” Gawain replied. “I mean, it seems like it’s always raining for most of the year, and the Woads and Roman criminals still attack us sometimes, but the people there aren’t so bad. There’s no Roman power any more, and no-one gets conscripted. You could become one of Arthur’s knights if you wanted, or do whatever else you wanted. You wouldn’t be stuck probably dying for the Romans someday or farming the plains if you survived. It’s like… the best of both worlds. You can be a warrior and fight and defend others, but you’re still free. You can get married and have children without having to wait until your term is over. And Arthur is good and kind. He’s worth following, which I can’t say for any other Roman I’ve met.”

Gaheris stayed quiet, and Gawain thought that his brother might have actually fallen asleep this time. He was just starting to nod off himself when Gaheris spoke again: “I guess it really doesn’t sound so bad after all.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

In the morning, Gawain woke to the smell of meat sizzling over a fire. A glance to his side told him that Gaheris was still asleep, so he slipped back out into the common room, moving carefully to avoid waking his brother. He saw the figure of his mother bent over the cooking fire, familiar yet unfamiliar, just like everything else here.

“Good morning,” Morgause said over her shoulder, not turning.

“Good morning,” Gawain replied, pulling his tunic over his head.

“Are you leaving already?” Morgause said bitterly, and Gawain froze.

“No,” he said, reaching for his boots. “Not just yet.”

“But you are leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Gawain paused. “Because I have to.”

“Why do you have to.”

“There’s more for me in Britain than there is here,” he sighed.

“What? A Roman lord and a wild bitch?” Morgause spun around, her eyes red as tears ran down her cheeks.

“Arthur is no Roman lord,” Gawain sighed, kneeling in front of her and resting his hands on her shoulders. “And Cymbeline is no wild bitch. I’m going back because I love them both, and others there.”

“And you don’t love your brothers?” Morgause demanded. “You don’t love your mother?”

“I do,” Gawain murmured, drawing her close. “But… I don’t know how to explain it. I belong there. Britain is more my home than Sarmatia ever was.”

Morgause pulled away and wiped her eyes. “I never thought I’d have my firstborn back again. And now… you come back, but just to tell me that you’re leaving again.”

“You could come back with me,” Gawain said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder again. “All of you. You’d be welcome. Arthur has promised asylum from the Romans to anyone who wants to return with us. There will be no more conscriptions, no more raiders—we’ve seen their work on our way here; an entire village ransacked, everyone in it killed, and the entire thing burned to the ground. There is peace in Britain.”

Morgause smiled slightly. “Pellinore would never agree to it.”

“We could convince him,” Gawain pursued. “Grav and Lamorak have seen it too; they both want to go back as well, but I doubt they will without the rest of you. Between the three of us… and if you said you wanted to go, don’t you think we could bring him around?”

“I don’t know,” Morgause turned back to her cooking. “And I don’t know if I want to go either.”

“Arthur is here with me,” Gawain said after a pause. “He and two other knights camped out on the plains last night, but they’re going to come here before they continue on. I’d like you all to meet him.”

“Alright,” Morgause nodded, back still to her son. They were silent for a moment, then: “You should go and get him. Tell him to come for breakfast.”

Gawain smiled slightly. “I will.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain rode out and fetched Arthur, Galahad, and Galeschin from the plains outside the village. They ate breakfast outside the small hut with the rest of the family. Arthur spoke as much as possible in his very broken Sarmatian—bits and pieces he’d picked up from his knights over the years, as well as on their journey through the grasslands. They, in turn and through their laughter, responded in unpracticed Latin. The breakfast was, somehow, genuinely enjoyable, despite the fact that Pellinore spent the entire time glaring at Arthur—not that the king noticed—and Morgause looked ready to break down into tears at a moment’s notice.

“Thank you greatly for your kindness, but we should be going now,” Arthur said finally, eyeing how far the sun had risen.

“Where are you going?” Pellinore asked shortly.

“We’re heading for Galeschin’s village,” Arthur gestured to the boy. “We’ll take him home first, and then Galahad and I will continue on, looking for the homes of the other boys that came to Britain at the same time as him and Gawain.”

“And once you find them, you’ll come back and take Gawain back to Britain with you?” Morgause asked, her voice thick.

“Yes,” Arthur nodded, then stared meaningfully at Gawain. “Assuming that he still wants to leave by then.” He turned back to Morgause and Pellinore. “You would all be welcome to come with us,” he said, looking around the circle. “Britain will welcome you.”

“Bah,” Pellinore grumbled. “What would we want to go to that dismal place for?”

“I’ll let you think about it,” Arthur stood, bowing slightly to Pellinore before turning to Gawain. “I’m not sure when we’ll be back, but we will be. If, by then, you’ve decided to stay, we will understand.”

Gawain nodded wordlessly, standing and following Arthur and the knights over to their horses. “I’ll be here when you return.”

Arthur nodded and mounted his horse; Galahad and Galeschin followed suit. “Good luck,” Gawain smiled up at Galeschin. “And to you two as well. None of us knew where the other knights came from, beyond that they were from two villages out past Lancelot’s. Don’t get lost out there.”

Arthur grinned down at the bronze-haired knight. “We’ll manage. We’re following the Roman route, so they should be easy enough to find. I’m just hoping that they don’t only speak Greek, like Palomides and his brothers did when they came to Britain.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The final three members of the small party rode for only a few more days before they found Galeschin’s village. Similar to Gawain’s village, this one was comprised of small, roundish huts clustered by a small stream, although the huts here were much closer together.

Arthur and Galahad followed Galeschin towards the village, very much aware of the wary glances the villagers were sending their way. “I’m looking for Ban,” Galeschin paused to ask a boy collecting water from the stream.

“That way,” the boy pointed, staring shyly up at the horsemen.

“Thank you,” Galeschin smiled down at him.

As before, Arthur and Galahad hung back as Galeschin dismounted by the hut identified as his family’s. There was an older woman with long, dark hair, greying at the roots, along with two younger women with the same soft brown hair as Galeschin. There was a great deal of screaming and sobbing as all three women leapt to their feet and all-but tackled the knight. At the racket, a man with greying hair ran up from the stream and was pulled into the group.

A few minutes later, Galeschin waved Arthur and Galahad over, grinning widely. “This is my mother, Helaine, and my sisters, Elaine and Evaine. And this is my father, Ban.”

“It is good to meet you all,” Arthur dismounted and bowed deeply. “I am Arthur Castus, and this is Galahad.”

“Galeschin says that you are a Roman commander,” Ban eyed Arthur stiffly.

“Yes, in Britain,” Arthur paused. “In fact, I was the commander to your older son, Lancelot.”

“But he is not with you,” Helaine observed.

“No, he is not,” Arthur paused again. “He should be. He…” the commander’s voice trailed off, and his eyes drifted to stare down at the ground.

“Lancelot was one of the best of us,” Galahad spoke up. “He survived fifteen years in Britain—only six of us managed that. He received his papers of freedom, and even started to leave Britain, but, at the last second, he—all of us, actually—turned back. We went back to fight a battle that seemed doomed to failure, because we knew it was the right thing to do. He fell in that battle… saving someone else.”

Helaine nodded, smiling proudly through the tears welling in her eyes. “He was always a brave boy.”

“He was,” Arthur nodded, smiling fondly.

“Come on, then,” Helaine stepped forward and hooked her arms through Arthur and Galahad’s. “You have a lot to tell me about my oldest child. And you”—she looked pointedly at Galahad—“have a lot to tell me about my youngest.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

They ate dinner outside of the family’s hut, seated around a low-burning fire. Arthur, Galahad, and Galeschin were introduced to Nentres and Persides, Evaine and Elaine’s husbands. Both of the young men had served the Romans in Thracia, but were extremely interested in the other knights’ tales of Britain and Gaul.

“We should go back with them,” Galeschin said, turning to his parents.

“Go back… to Britain?” Helaine gaped.

“Why not?” Galeschin asked. “Arthur has promised asylum for anyone who returns with him, and protection from the Romans. There will be no more conscriptions—Evaine and Elaine won’t ever have to worry about their sons being taken away from them, like you did. Well, that is if Evaine and Elaine and Nentres and Persides wanted to come with us."

Helaine and Ban traded glances. “I think we’ll have to talk that over,” Helaine laughed.

“But it’s admittedly not an altogether bad proposition,” Ban admitted. “I spent my fifteen years in Britain, and I hated it the entire time. But, thinking back, I think that was really just because I was missing my wife.” He wrapped an arm around Helaine’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek, eliciting a smile from her.

“I’d go,” Nentres shrugged, trading a glance with Evaine. “To avoid conscription for our sons? And if the rest of your family decided to go as well?”

“I would too,” Persides traded a similar look with Elaine. “But I’d have to bring my own family along.”

“They would be welcome,” Arthur nodded.

“Do we have to decide tonight?” Helaine asked.

“No,” Arthur shook his head. “Galahad and I are going to travel further on, looking for the villages some of the other knights who served with us came from. We’ll come back in a few weeks, whether or not we find them—the Roman route I was told of wasn’t very clear, and we’ve had guides to get us to the other villages in the form of knights who’d come from them. But those families deserve to know what happened to their sons just as much as the others we’ve visited.”

Ban nodded. “A noble goal.”

“But you’ll stay with us tonight, of course,” Helaine said, standing and beginning to bustle around the fire, collecting dishes.

“Thank you, lady,” Arthur stood as well and took the dishes from her. “We would appreciate the roof. But we’ll wash the dishes; it’s the least we can do.”

“Well, if you insist,” Helaine laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t mind!”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Almost two months after Arthur and Galahad had left, Gawain was returning from a hunting trip with Pellinore, Lamorak, and Gaheris when he saw a small caravan heading towards the village. He passed his catch over to Lamorak and spurred his horse towards the caravan. He pulled Gringolet up next to Galahad and grinned lopsidedly at his best friend.

“Welcome back,” Gawain said. “I see a few people decided to take Arthur up on his offer?”

“Lancelot and Galeschin’s family, which is their parents and sisters,” Galahad said. “Plus, both girls are married, so their husbands came, obviously, and brought their parents, as well as Persides’s two sisters and the older one’s husband—that’s Enid and Igraine and Gorlois.”

“Wow,” Gawain grinned, glancing back at the caravan.

“What about your family?” Galahad asked. “Will they come with us?”

“I think so,” Gawain glanced towards his family’s home. “I know that Ewan and his family have decided to stay, but I think that I’ve convinced my family to come with us. It helps that none of the boys—or Dindrane—are married, and there aren’t a lot of options for them here.”

Arthur rode up beside Galahad, two men behind him. “Gawain, hello. This is Ban, Lancelot and Galeschin’s father, and this is Persides.”

“Hello,” Gawain greeted the men, then turned his attention back to Arthur. “Where will you all camp tonight?”

“Outside the village,” Arthur replied. “We don’t want to get in the way. I’d like to leave again tomorrow morning, although if your family will be joining us, we can wait another day or two.”

Gawain nodded. “I’ll go back and speak to Pellinore. Hopefully I can have an answer for you by tonight.”

“Pellinore?” Ban leaned forward. “That old goat is still alive out here?” he laughed loudly. “Let me come with you. I’ll talk some sense into him. Is Lot around anywhere? I bet we could talk him into coming as well.”

“Lot is dead,” Gawain said, confused. “He was my father—how did you know him, and Pellinore?”

“I served with them in Britain… a long time ago,” Ban chuckled. “The two of them, a grumpy old chap named Bors… There were a few others who survived and came back with us too.”

Gawain, Galahad, and Arthur exchanged bewildered glances and couldn’t help but laugh. “Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Gawain grinned. “Pellinore keeps complaining about a big, grumpy man who was in Britain with him—hearing that, I’d bet it’s Bors the Elder he’s fussing over.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Galahad laughed.

“Come up with me and talk to Pellinore,” Gawain turned back to Ban. “We’ll get his answer back to you tonight or tomorrow morning, Arthur.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

In the end, Morgause, Pellinore, and Ban stayed up almost the entire night, debating whether or not the family would make the trip to Britain—much to Grav’s frustration: “It’s not like the two of you have had the better part of two months to decide this or anything.”

When the sun rose, Pellinore walked stiffly to the small camp with Ban, Gawain, and Grav to inform Arthur that his family would be joining them on the return trip to Britain. Arthur received the information happily, and promised that the caravan would wait a few extra days for Pellinore, Morgause, and the rest of the family to tie up their affairs and prepare for the journey.

Three days later, a fourth cart joined Arthur’s caravan, laden with the possessions of the large family, as well as Morgause and Dindrane. Gawain took turns riding Gringolet with Gareth, who didn’t have his own horse, walking beside one or other of the carts or riders whenever Gareth rode.

There was some debate about whether or not they should even visit Iseult’s village again on their way back. Finally, Arthur decided against doing so, as the summer was already beginning to fade into autumn and he was worried about making it back to the port before the ships stopped for the winter. They also gave the burned village a wide berth as they headed back for Bors and his family.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Bors the Younger was beginning to wonder if his king and friends were ever coming back—and how exactly to explain their probable deaths to Cymbeline and Guinevere—when Gawain and Galahad rode into the village.

“Good afternoon!” the call distracted Bors enough for Elyan to deliver a hard blow with the butt of a staff to the small of his father’s back.

“Oops,” Elyan winced.

“Good job, boy!” Bors the Elder cheered from the fence of the practice arena. “Use your opponent’s distraction to your advantage!”

Bors glowered at his father before turning towards the source of the voice. Galahad was grinning from where he perched on the fence, and, next to him, Gawain’s expression wasn’t much different.

“We’re back,” the bronze-haired knight added unnecessarily, then dodged the wooden staff that came flying towards his head.

“Like I couldn’t see that,” Bors huffed, stomping over to them. “I was just starting to think that you’d… gone back without me.”

“You thought we were dead!” Galahad faked indignation, drawing himself up—and losing his balance so that he nearly fell off the fence in the process.

“I did not,” Bors growled. “But if I had, I’d’ve been right to do so.” He looked around behind his friends. “Where’s Arthur?”

“He’s outside the village with the others,” Gawain replied.

“Others?” Bors repeated.

“My and Grav’s family, Lamorak’s family”—

“Which is also technically Gawain and Aggravaine’s family,” Galahad interrupted, earning him an elbow to the ribs from Gawain.

“Galeschin’s entire family, and his sisters’ husbands’ families came as well,” Gawain finished. “Ewan decided to stay behind, though.”

“What about yours?” Bors looked up—that was an odd sensation—at Galahad, who was doing a rather good job of blocking out the low afternoon sun.

“Dead,” Galahad grew sober. “The whole village was burned to the ground.”

“What about you?” Gawain asked. “Will your father and Elyan come with us?”

“Yes,” Bors nodded. “But just them. No-one else in the village is interested. Not that there are many other people in the village.”

“Arthur will want to know how long it’ll take you to be ready,” Gawain said.

“We could leave tonight, if he wanted,” Bors grinned. “We’ve been packed almost since you left.”

“Well, I think he plans to camp here for the night, but I think he’ll be glad to know we can leave first thing in the morning,” Gawain grinned. “He’s worried about losing the weather for sailing home.”

“I was starting to as well,” Bors nodded soberly. “We were about ready to leave without you.”

“We’re glad you didn’t,” Gawain grinned. “We’ll go back and talk to Arthur, and see you in the morning.”

Bors nodded and grinned. “See you then.”


	17. Chapter 17

The road to the coast was a long one, especially with the slow carts and the members of the caravan who were on foot. The knights could sense Arthur’s impatience growing day by day as they crept towards the sea, and it soon began to infect them as well. Galahad—often with Gawain or Elyan at his side—took to riding ahead in the evening as a scout, searching for a sign that they were nearing their destination, but none was forthcoming.

It took them far too long to reach the coast, as far as Arthur was concerned. It was already mid-afternoon when Galahad and Elyan came galloping back to the caravan to inform him that they had sighted the port. Arthur pushed the caravan far harder than usual that day, trying to get as close to the sea as possible before stopping for the night. In the morning, they found the city just visible on the horizon, and he took Galahad and Galeschin to ride into town with him, leaving Gawain and Bors in charge of the small collection of riders and wagons with instructions to meet them on the edge of the city.

The city was dirty—not that Arthur hadn’t been expecting that; he had, after all, seen the port when he arrived from Britain. The biggest difference between then and now was the smell. When they had arrived, the city had stunk; they’d been able to smell it before the ship had even docked. Now, while the smell was still present, it was significantly less prevalent—in fact, it was almost tolerable now.

The three riders went straight to the docks, which were full. Arthur hoped that this was a good sign as he dismounted and headed for the harbor master’s booth, Galahad and Galeschin behind him, leading the three horses.

“My good sir,” Arthur inclined his head towards the harbor master. “My friends and I are looking to charter passage for ourselves and our families.”

“Alright,” the man nodded, pulling out a great ledger. “Where are ye heading? It may take a bit of time to get you on a ship, unless you have the money for a private vessel.”

“We’re heading for the isle of Britannia,” Arthur replied. “And we can pay well for passage.”

Before Arthur had even finished speaking, the man was shaking his head. “All ships north have stopped for the winter.”

“There are no ships going to the north until the spring?” Arthur demanded, his heart dropping.

“None,” the harbor master continued to shake his head, slamming the book shut.

“Not even if we pay well?” Arthur asked.

“No,” the harbor master tucked the ledger away under his desk. “The winter storms have come early this year, and have already sunk two ships that tried to travel north. No captain will risk the voyage, no matter what you pay—and even if you could convince someone to take you, it would be foolish to try the journey. You’d be more likely to sink than to make it there alive.”

Arthur nodded and headed back towards his companions and the horses.

“Well?” Galahad asked.

“When did you get so eager to get back to Britain?” Galeschin teased.

“Well, you’ll have to contain your excitement,” Arthur snapped. “All ships north have stopped for the winter.”

“All ships?” Galahad repeated.

“All ships,” Arthur grumbled, mounting his horse.

“So what are we going to do?” Galahad asked. “Stay in the port until the ships start again?” 

“We could take everyone north along the and hope that we could find a ferry across the narrow point of the channel,” Galeschin suggested. “Depending on the strength of the winter storms, they sometimes continue the ferry all through the season.”

“According to the harbor master, the storms this season have already been very strong,” Arthur sighed. “I doubt the ferries are running. And we can’t stay in the city; we couldn’t afford it.”

“So what are we going to do?” Galahad challenged.

“I suppose we could camp outside of the city,” Arthur mused. “There’s a river there that should hold fish we could catch. We might even be able to gather some other food from the countryside to help tide us over.”

“It’ll be a cold winter,” Galeschin mused. “But liveable.”

“Probably not as bad as an outdoors winter in Britain,” Galahad piped up.

“But bad enough,” Arthur sighed.

“Our people are Sarmatian,” Galeschin grinned. “They can make it through a Gaulish winter—trust me, I know.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

When Arthur returned to the camp, he pulled Gawain, Bors, Ban, Bors the Elder, and Pellinore aside and informed them of the situation. “As I see it, we have two options,” he finished. “We can either camp here for the winter and live off the land, waiting for the ships to start again for the winter, or we can travel north along the coast to where the ferries cross the narrow point of the channel between Gaul and Britain, in the hopes that we would be able to take a ferry sooner than we would be able to take a ship.”

Gawain and Bors traded glances. Both of them were eager to get home, but both understood the reasons they would have to winter in Gaul.

“I’d say go north,” Bors said, shifting his weight, thumbs hooked in his belt. “We can spend some of the time we’re waiting moving instead of sitting, and then have a shorter sea voyage once the ships are moving again.”

“The problem with that is that Galeschin and the others don’t have much experience with that part of Gaul,” Gawain replied. “We don’t know what sort of gathering or fishing we’d be able to do there. We can’t be sure that we’d be able to eat through the winter.”

“But just sitting here, in the same spot, for the whole winter?” Ban shook his head. “It might not be safe.”

“The problem with travelling north, as well, is that, even if we are able to cross the channel early, we may not be able to get through Britain if the winter is a bad one,” Pellinore added. “We all saw many bad winters during our time in Britain.”

“That’s true,” Bors the Elder nodded in agreement.

“And the winter that far north in Gaul could be just as bad,” Galeschin piped up. “The further north you get, the worse the winters get.” 

“If we did get stuck there for the whole winter, it would be just as bad as getting stuck in Britain during the winter,” Gawain mused

“What if we camp here until the winter starts to let up,” Ban suggested. “As soon as the first signs of spring start to arrive, we start north. By the time we get to the ferry point, it should be enough into summer that we can take it north and start to move through Britain.”

“It would probably be less time than waiting for the ships to start  _ and _ get through a sea voyage,” Pellinore nodded.

“And we can gather food and fish to take with us, in case we can’t find more along the road,” Galahad piped up. “We won’t have to worry about going hungry.”

“We’ll be worrying about going hungry the whole winter,” Pellinore sighed, looking around. “There won’t be enough to gather and fish to feed us all very well through the winter. It’s going to be tight, and full of empty bellies.”

“We’ll all lose a few notches in our belts over the next few months,” Ban agreed. “But we’ll survive. Winters in Sarmatia are harsh, and there is little to eat there either. Our people can live through a Gaulish winter.”

“Yes, we’ll survive,” Arthur nodded. “All of us. It will be as much a battle as those we fight with our swords, but we will survive.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, side notes here: Clan Cunobelin is made up. Cunobelin is another form of Cymbeline. Cymbeline was an actual king in Britain, around AD 10-40, I believe. He had three sons, one of which is a possible historical counterpart for Caradoc. He did also have a brother, but since I'd already created characters for his three sons and wanted to include the character of Caradoc somehow, I decided to use him as Cymbeline's brother. Also, you may have remembered that in the first chapter, I said that Bedivere was Lucan and Griflet's cousin (I think that was a typo to begin with anyways), but when I started thinking about this story again I was thinking of them all as brothers, so that was how I wrote it. Also, I called Cymbeline Gawain's wife in that first chapter, but they aren't actually married yet.
> 
> Another note: I have been referring to Breton as a language/people group in Britain. However, I've clearly forgotten everything I learned in linguistics class, because the Breton language and people are actually in/from modern-day France. So, sorry about that, but it's too late to change it now, so oh well.

As spring began to melt the heavy winter snows around the fort, the knights once again began to patrol deeper into the nearby forest. They remained on the southern side of the wall, for the most part, until word reached them from travelers from the north that Nimue and Morgana had withdrawn to the very northernmost parts of Caledonia. Once this news reached the fort, a discussion was begun among the queen, her knights, and her father about returning him to Camellaird.

“With Morgana and Nimue in the far north, it’ll be much less dangerous to return Leodegrance and Guinaelle to Camellaird,” said Kei.

“Much less dangerous, yes, but still quite treacherous,” Cullwch argued. “Even though Morgana and Nimue have withdrawn north, their influence still extends farther south than I think we realize. Even beyond the wall, we’re still seeing their impact.”

“Cullwch is right,” said Cymbeline. “We’ve seen as many of their raiding parties wreaking havoc across Albion and Caledonia as we did while Ysbadaddon was still in command of his armies—and I do say his armies specifically, because I highly doubt that Morgana gave up control of hers to him, if her reputation is any indication of her personality. There is no doubt in my mind that Morgana still wields considerable power in the north, even if reports say that she has withdrawn.”

“But if I do not return to Camellaird, and soon, I fear that I may lose the support of my people there,” Leodegrance spoke up. “I must get back, or you will lose your last true ally in the north. And if and when Arthur does finally return to Britain, he’ll need more than a few scattered tribesmen and what’s left of Merlin’s forces to take back the north—or even just to fight off Morgana. This isn’t a Saxon horde; these aren’t soldiers who were fierce but unused to our land. These are Woad warriors, born and raised on this island. They know its tricks, its corners and nooks and crannies. They know how to blend in with the forests, attack, and be gone before you even know that they were there to begin with!”

“We can’t risk another journey north,” Cymbeline shot back. “Last time, Ysbadaddon only let us get away so he’d have a better excuse to attack us here. In that battle, we lost seven men, and over a dozen more were wounded. Dagonet lost his hand! And almost the entirety of that fight was from a distance; the only hand-to-hand combat was the fight over the gate, where Dagonet was injured.”

“And in the skirmishes we’ve had with Morgana’s forces since then, I’ve lost a lot more men,” Ganis spoke up as soon as Cymbeline stopped to take a breath. “I’m running out of people who want to join up for the guard. There’s not hardly even anyone I could recruit if it came to that.”

“We just don’t have the manpower to return you to Camellaird,” Kei sighed.

“Trust me, my lord—it’s not that we want you to be stuck here, there’s just no practical way for us to take you home,” Dinadan sighed.

“They’re right, father,” Guinevere said softly, resting a hand on her father’s arm. “We do want to get you home, and you’re right, we’ll need your help to fight back Morgana—but it’s just not possible for us to go into the north right now. If anything happened, to you or the ones we sent with you, or if Morgana attacked Camelot while they were gone…”

Leodegrance settled back into his chair and sighed. “I know, my dear,” he patted Guinevere’s hand. “I am just… afraid, is all. I’m afraid that if I wait too much longer, there won’t be a home for me to go back to. And once that happens, I’m afraid that this place… won’t be a home for anyone anymore.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

As soon as the warmth of spring began to melt the snows on the coast of Gaul, Arthur and the Sarmatians began to plan their next step. 

“Hopefully, the ships will be starting soon,” Arthur said, looking around the small fireside circle. He suppressed a slight smile as the similarities between the scene and his round table struck him.

“Now the choice we have is to wait until ships from this port begin to sail north again, or to travel north by land for the ferries across the channel to Britain,” Ban mused aloud.

“Well, which has more benefits?” Helaine asked practically.

“The travel by land could take as long as the sea voyage,” Pellinore said. “Especially with the mud from the melting snow and the spring rains.”

“The sea voyage might wind up being easier, then,” said Galeschin. “We wouldn’t have to worry about the carts getting stuck or breaking wheels or axles, or the horses getting hurt.”

“But it will be expensive,” Ban said. “Passage for all of us, as well as the horses? Even if we sold the carts, we’d need new ones to travel across Britain.”

“And a long sea voyage would be… not attractive to many of us,” Galahad said, already looking queasy.

“By many of us, you mean you?” Gawain grinned, nudging Galahad in the ribs with his elbow.

“I’m sure there are other people here who get seasick,” Galahad snapped.

“Anyways,” Arthur quickly steered the conversation back to its original point.

“The sea voyage seems the better option,” Ban said. “If we think the timing will be similar, it saves the horses and the carts, if we can come up with the fee for it.”

Galahad groaned softly, lowering his head to his hands. Laughing, Gawain patted him on the back and stood up. “Come on. We’ll check with the harbormaster and see if he has any news on the ships resuming.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

A few months after their discussion about returning Leodegrance to Camellaird, an unexpected visitor arrived at the fort. It was the end of a long week that had seen several guerilla attacks from Morgana’s forces, and the knights were seated at the round table for the first time in days. They were going over the events of the week, when Jols hurried into the room.

“What is it?” Guinevere asked.

“There’s someone here to see the queen,” Jols replied, bowing slightly.

“Who is it?” Guinevere asked.

“A Woad chieftain from the north,” Jols replied. “He didn’t give his name, but says that he wants to help Arthur deal with Morgana.”

Guinevere glanced around the table, her gaze settling on her father. “Show him in,” she said finally, turning her attention back to Jols and the doorway.

Jols bowed slightly and hurried back out, only to return a few moments later. Following him was a tall, broad-shouldered man with sand-colored hair. He wore a familiar tartan wrapped around his shoulders—tan, brown, and red—and had sparkling green eyes that didn’t show the age evident in the wrinkles on his face or the grey in his hair. As soon as he came into sight, Bedivere’s jaw dropped.

“Father?” Bedivere stood, pushing his chair back.

“Hello, Beds,” the man grinned at the knight before turning towards the other side of the table. “King Leodegrance,” he bowed, “Queen Guinevere.”

Guinevere inclined her head towards him. “And you are..?”

“Jorah Cunobelin,” the man drew himself up to his full height. “Chieftan of clan Cunobelin.”

“Deposed chieftain,” Bedivere said.

“A minor detail,” Jorah grinned.

“’Minor’?” Guinevere repeated. “That doesn’t seem like a ‘minor’ detail to me.”

“Many years ago, Uther Castus and his knights led an attack on my father, King Cymbeline,” Jorah explained. “He and his oldest son, Adi, were killed in that attack, but my mother fled with me and my elder brother, Rhience. My father’s younger brother, Caradoc, took control of the clan—you see, Caradoc had brought false information to Uther that Cymbeline was going to lead a coalition of Woads to attack the wall and this fort, and that the only way Uther could stop this was to lead an attack against Cymbeline first. Caradoc did this because he wanted to rule, and once my oldest brother was born, much less Rhience and myself, he never had a chance.”

“That… hardly seems possible,” Guinevere shook her head. “Caradoc has been one of Arthur’s greatest supporters in the north.”

“Yes, but not at first,” Leodegrance said. “He fought Merlin every step of the way on turning to Arthur for help in dealing with the Saxons. It was only once they invaded and started wiping out the people of his clan that he finally—and very begrudgingly—agreed that we should look south for aid. Even when Arthur was declared king, Caradac was reluctant to voice his support.”

“He only truly lent his full support to Arthur when Arthur’s popularity became too great to oppose any longer,” Jorah added. “He didn’t have a choice any more after that.”

“So what do you want us to do?” Guinevere asked. “Even if Caradoc is a false friend, he is still a friend. We can’t exactly go and attack him now, not that we could spare the men to help you anyways.”

“My apologies, my queen; that’s not what I was asking for,” Jorah said respectfully. “I have the warriors. My people will support me. All I want is someone to support my claim. A name to back me, if you will. If I have the support of Arthur—and Leodegrance—who will challenge me once I take back what’s mine?”

“Arthur isn’t here,” Guinevere arched an eyebrow. “Surely you’ve heard. He can’t exactly support your claim if he’s not even in Britain.”

“But you can,” Jorah smiled, “and your word is just as good as his. I already have the support of Brutus, Taliesin, and Cador, all Woad kings above the wall—but with your support, no-one would dare challenge me.”

Guinevere was silent for a long minute. “Is there any proof that you are the rightful head of your clan?”

“Everyone knows,” Leodegrance said. “Everyone knows that Cymbeline was killed by Uther Castus because the Romans believed that he was plotting against them—all of us in the north knew that it was a lie, but we couldn’t exactly do anything. Caradoc took over immediately. Since Cymbeline’s sons were so young, no-one argued him. But when both of them and their children went missing many years later… Well, by that time, Caradoc had solidified his rule to such an extent that no-one dared to argue him.”

“He sent men after me and Rhience,” Jorah explained. “They killed Rhience and we thought his daughter”—he cast a glance towards Cymbeline—“but my sons and I managed to escape him. They continued to come after us for years, which is why I sent my youngest son to Merlin and my other two boys to Cador, for their own safety.”

Guinevere sighed. “In that case—if you are truly the rightful chieftain of clan Cunobelin—we will support you. But our support will have to be in word only; as I said earlier, we don’t have the men to send with you.”

Jorah nodded, but paused before speaking. “It’s not men I would ask for,” he said finally, “but I would appreciate it if you let me take my sons and my niece with me.”

Before he had even finished speaking, Guinevere was shaking her head. “I’m afraid we can’t spare them. Cymbeline and Bedivere are knights; we need them desperately here. I’m not going to lie; Morgana has been running us ragged with attacks by her men. Their frequency is starting to increase again, and I need every man and woman that I have.”

“What about Lucan and Griflet?” Jorah pursued.

Guinevere paused. “They’re not technically knights,” she admitted, “but I do need them.”

“Sending them along would be a good way of showing your support of Jorah’s claim,” Kei said slowly.

“We could manage without two trainees for a few weeks,” Cymbeline said reluctantly.

“And it’s not like they wouldn’t get training of a sort with Jorah,” Bedivere sighed. “Not if he’s planning to retake the clan.”

Guinevere nodded. “You promise to return them unharmed.”

“Well, they are my sons,” Jorah grinned charmingly. “I certainly will do my best.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The sea voyage to Britain was rough, especially for Galahad. As it turned out, he was the only one of the Sarmatians who got incapacitatingly seasick. Dindrane sat below decks with him most of the time, making sure that he drank water, at least occasionally, and even forced broth down his throat upon the rare instances that he stopped either vomiting or dry heaving.

The landing in Britain was well-received by the entire company. Upon disembarking the ship, they headed for the outskirts of town to set up camp for the night, or until Arthur could arrange transport.

“I’m so glad to be on dry land again,” Dindrane closed her eyes and smiled, turning her face upwards so that the rain sprinkled her cheeks.

“Dry being a relative term,” Gawain grinned.

“Well,” Dindrane laughed. “You know what I mean.”

“And what’s your first impression of Britain?” Gawain asked.

“It doesn’t seem so bad as you and Galahad are always saying,” Dindrane grinned.

“Well, give it another fifteen years,” Gawain teased. “You might change your mind.”

“You didn’t,” Dindrane teased.

“I did,” Gawain said. “I just decided I didn’t mind it so much as I’d thought.”


	19. Chapter 19

It took several days for Arthur to arrange to rent the wagons they needed to get back to the fort, and once they were on their way, it took far longer to reach Hadrian’s Wall than anyone would have liked. Late snows fell several times during the journey, and the weather only really began to get warmer about halfway through the trip. However, by the time they finally began to near the Wall, the days were noticeably longer and warmer.

“D’you think we should send someone ahead, to let them know we’re coming?” Galahad stared wistfully at the road ahead of them.

“Possibly, once we’re a bit closer to the fort,” Arthur replied, hiding a smile at the younger knight’s evident impatience. “We’re hardly even two-thirds of the way across the island, I think. Sending someone now would just be preemptive.”

“I suppose,” Galahad sighed, fastening his saddlebags to his saddle. “It’s just that we’re so close, but we’re going so slow that it feels like we’ll never be back.”

“I never thought I’d see the day when  _ you _ were excited to get back to Camelot,” Gawain teased, his own saddlebags slung over his shoulder as he readied his horse.

“Neither did I,” Galahad admitted, focused on the buckles and straps of his saddle and bridle. “But, now… after going to where I thought my home was… after seeing what was left of my village… Camelot is truly my home now—my only home. And, yes, I’m actually excited to be back there, for probably the first time ever. Well, except for maybe when we were coming back from Rome.”

Gawain laughed. “I don’t remember you saying anything about being excited to see Camelot again when we were coming back from Rome.”

“I very carefully did not say anything about it, because I wanted to avoid this exact discussion,” Galahad sniped.

Gawain laughed again as he finished saddling his horse. Arthur left the two behind to go and check on the other members of the caravan. Bors and his father were, unsurprisingly, arguing, while Elyan was studiously avoiding them by helping Gareth and Percival get their family packed up and on the move.

Arthur paused by the carts that signified Ban’s extended family. “Good morning,” he greeted the man. “How is everyone today?”

“Well enough,” Ban nodded. “But I think we might have to catch up to you on the road.”

“Why is that?” Arthur’s brow furrowed.

“Evaine’s gone into labor,” Helaine said shortly, hurrying past them with a pot of hot water.

“Congratulations,” Arthur smiled at Ban. “And don’t worry about catching up with us; we’ll all wait for you.”

“We don’t want to slow you down”—Ban began

“Not at all,” Arthur rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is important. And these woods are too dangerous, especially to those who don’t know them, to leave anyone behind.”

“Thank you,” Ban smiled, relieved.

“Of course,” Arthur smiled back. “And congratulations, again.”

Ban nodded and turned back towards his family. Arthur made his way around the camp to inform the other travelers that they wouldn’t be setting out that day after all. At the small huddle of Gawain’s family, Morgause excused herself and went to offer her aid as a healer and midwife to Evaine and Helaine.

“Well, it looks like we’ll be taking a bit longer to get to Camelot,” Gawain grinned at Galahad. “Do you think you’ll be able to contain yourself?”

Galahad, who was unsaddling his horse, ignored him.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

It was shortly before midday when the riders—some of the first they’d seen since leaving the port—came into view. There were two riders, one big and one small. The grey, dappled horse bore the smaller rider, bundled heavily against the cold in a short fur cloak and a hooded cowl, as well as a thick sweater and heavy trousers. A huge brown stallion bore the larger rider, bundled nearly as heavily in a bulky wool cloak, drawn closed in the front, a thick scarf, and similar heavy trousers.

Elyan and Enid spotted them on a trip to fetch water from a stream across the road. The teenagers dropped their buckets and raced back to the camp with the news. “Arthur!” Elyan called, half-frantic, racing up to the king.

“What is it?” Arthur and Bors were on their feet first, followed by Pellinore and Bors the Elder. The younger knights wandered over, curious at the commotion, despite Elyan’s penchant for drama.

“There are riders on the road,” Elyan pointed back.

“How many?” Arthur demanded, alarmed.

“Two,” Enid replied.

“Two?” Bors the Elder repeated, arching an eyebrow. “For two riders, the pair of you run back in a panic?”

“Enough,” Arthur hushed the old man before he could continue berating the teenagers. “Gawain, Aggravaine, Galahad, go and see what you can see.”

Gawain grabbed his axe and led the other two to the edge of the road, where they crouched in the bushes and watched the road. 

“I only see one rider,” Grav whispered.

“One rider, two horses,” Galahad pointed.

Across the road, the big rider was kneeling by the stream, filling a waterskin. True enough, there were two horses beside him, both saddled, but no-one else was visible.

Before anyone else could say anything, a thin, sharp, curved blade was against the bare skin of Galahad’s neck. A small, cold hand found a grip in his black curls, and the breath of a whisper tickled his ear: “You’ve been gone for too long.”

Gawain and Grav jumped, bringing up their weapons. With a laugh, the blade at Galahad’s throat was gone and he was released. He whipped around and found a face grinning at him from within a knitted hood. “Cymbeline!” he exclaimed, then lunged forward to hug the girl tightly.

“Careful!” she laughed, holding her blade away from him. “I don’t actually want to cut you!”

As soon as Galahad released her, Gawain was there to scoop her up into a giant hug. Galahad relieved her of the sickle so that she could wrap both of her arms tightly around Gawain’s neck.

“I’ve missed you,” Gawain whispered into Cymbeline’s ear.

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered back. “There’s so much I want to tell you.”

Gawain set her down and smiled, his vision wavering oddly as tears pricked at the back of his eyes. Cymbeline beamed up at him in turn, tears already running down her cheeks. “You were gone forever, you know,” she said thickly.

“Was I?” Gawain laughed.

“Yes,” she sniffed. “I counted.”

Gawain laughed again and pulled her close into another hug. “You can’t count to forever,” he teased.

“Well, I counted for so long that it might as well have been forever,” Cymbeline retorted, grinning. She gave Grav a hug as well before leading them out of the bushes and towards a grinning Kei. “Welcome home,” the red-headed knight grinned, clasping the forearms of each of the other knights in turn.

“It’s good to see you again, Kei,” Galahad grinned.

“You as well, little scout,” Kei ruffled Galahad’s hair.

“Where’s Arthur?” Cymbeline asked.

“Back in the camp,” Gawain nodded. “Come with us.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

When they reached the camp, Arthur stood, Bors, Bors the Elder, and Pellinore lined up behind him. The rest of the Sarmatians stood further back, watching the new arrivals warily. Arthur stepped forward and saluted Cymbeline and Kei, a gesture which they returned, before smiling and clasping forearms with each of them. As soon as Arthur had stepped back, Bors took his place to scoop Cymbeline up into a massive bear hug, so tight that she lost her breath. Kei received a hearty handshake from the big man, and then Bors stepped back behind Arthur.

“What news of Camelot?” Arthur asked, leading Cymbeline and Kei towards one of the campfires.

“It’s been a long winter,” Cymbeline replied.

“Very,” Kei agreed.

“The Woads in the north, under the warlord Ysbadaddon and Morgana, the one that everyone calls a sorceress, rose up against you once it seemed sure that you were gone,” Cymbeline explained. “They either allied themselves with all of the other Woad tribes, or killed the chieftains and took them over. They killed Merlin and brought his head to Camelot as a warning to Guinevere; what would happen if she didn’t abdicate and declare Ysbadaddon lord over Albion.”

“They even took Camellaird,” Kei piped up. “They threw Leodegrance and Guinevere’s little sister into prison.”

“Guinevere sent Bedivere and I north with Branwyr and Tristan to negotiate for their release,” Cymbeline explained. “We were unsuccessful, so we broke them out and escaped south, but Ysbadaddon followed us and attacked the wall.” She turned to Bors and grinned. “Bran was amazing. She led the archers at the fort and held back Ysbadaddon and Morgana’s men. She was the one to fell Ysbadaddon; she put an arrow through his eye from halfway across the field.”

Bors grinned proudly, but let Cymbeline continue her report: “After that, Morgana and Nimue withdrew, for the most part, but they never completely stopped attacking us. Recently, they’ve been growing bold again. We’ve been sending out patrols to mark their progress south; Kei and I were checking along this road. We didn’t see any signs all day yesterday, but this morning we thought we heard shouting and wanted to see what it was.”

“That would be my daughter,” Ban said, having joined the circle partway through Cymbeline’s story. “She gave birth to her son this morning.”

“Congratulations,” Cymbeline smiled at him. “I’m glad to know it wasn’t Woads or bandits attacking anyone.”

“How far are we from the fort?” Arthur asked. “I thought we had at least a week of travel left.”

“Maybe thirty miles?” Cymbeline replied. “Even with all this, it shouldn’t take more than two or three days. Well, maybe four with all the mud.”

“Good,” Arthur nodded.

Cymbeline stood. “I’ll head back tonight. We should let Guinevere and the others know how close you are.”

“You can’t go back alone,” Gawain argued. “Not if there are as many Woads in these woods as you say there might be.”

Cymbeline paused. “I have a fast horse. It’ll be better if I go alone and ride hard.”

“Take Galahad with you,” Arthur said. “His horse is fast as well, and he’s a good rider, used to scouting.”

“We could send Lamorak as well,” Pellinore said slowly. “He’s small, and a fast rider.”

Arthur nodded. “When will you leave?”

“As soon as possible,” Cymbeline replied. “If we leave now and ride through the night, we could be back at the fort by the time they open the gates tomorrow morning.”

“Galahad, go and ready your horse—and tell Lamorak to do the same,” he said. Galahad nodded and hurried off.

Cymbeline stood and bowed slightly to the king. “Welcome home, Arthur,” she smiled.

“Thank you,” the king smiled. “And it is good to see you again, little knight.”

Cymbeline grinned, bowed again, and turned back to her horse. Gawain jumped up and hurried after her. “You should take Gringolet,” he said, catching her by the arm.

“What’s wrong with my horse?” Cymbeline laughed. “She’s faster.”

“Yes, and tired,” Gawain replied. “You rode her all day yesterday and today. Gringolet had today to rest, and we stopped early last night. He may not be as fast, but you’ll probably have to go a bit slower than you’d like so that Galahad and Lamorak can keep up with you.”

“Alright,” Cymbeline sighed. She led her horse after Gawain, towards where Gringolet was hobbled along with the other horses in the camp.

“Cymbeline!” Lamorak grinned at her as they approached. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” she grinned in reply. “It’s good to see all of you, really. I’m glad you’re back.” She glanced up at Gawain and smiled softly.

They finished saddling and readying the horses quickly, and Cymbeline transferred her saddlebags between her horse and Gringolet. As they were beginning to lead the horses back towards the road, Bors hurried over to them. “Cymbeline?” he asked.

“Yes?” she turned towards the big knight.

“How are”—Bors began.

“Vanora and the children are doing very well,” Cymbeline interrupted. “At least for the most part. As I said, it’s been a rough winter.”

“And”—Bors began again.

“The baby was a girl,” Cymbeline continued. “Vanora called her Jennie. She already has her mother’s temperament.”

Bors beamed. “Good. She was healthy?”

“Very,” Cymbeline grinned. “Especially her lungs, as just about everyone in the fort can attest to.”

Satisfied, Bors headed back towards where Kei was providing Arthur with more detail on the happenings of the past several months.

“You’ll have to make sure that Kei tells Arthur about his new heir,” Cymbeline grinned at Gawain.

“He has another son?” Gawain asked.

“Yes, born almost nine months to the day after you all left,” Cymbeline nodded. She paused to allow Galahad and Lamorak to draw ahead of them. “And you have an heir as well.”

Gawain stopped short. He turned slowly and stared down at her. “An heir?” he repeated.

“Well, strictly speaking, two,” Cymbeline blushed slightly. “And a little girl as well.”

Gawain’s jaw dropped and he continued to stare down at Cymbeline. “Three?” he stammered finally.

“It was as much a shock to me when they were born,” Cymbeline replied.

“Cymbeline!” Galahad called from the side of the road.

“I’ll be right there!” Cymbeline called back.

“What are they called?” Gawain asked softly.

“I named the girl Bellicent, after my mother,” Cymbeline replied. “The boys are Lot and Rhience, for both of our fathers. Bella looks just like you, and Lot looks just like me, funnily enough. As for Rhience, Bedivere swears up and down that he looks just like my father, which I suppose is appropriate, considering that’s who he’s named for…” she trailed off, her eyes drifting back down towards the ground. 

Gawain laughed, and wrapped her in another tight hug. “I can’t wait to meet them,” he murmured softly.

“I can’t wait for you to meet them,” Cymbeline replied, her voice muffled. When he released her, she stepped back and beamed up at him. “But that’ll be soon enough. For now, I have to get going.”

“Right,” Gawain nodded. “Ready?” he asked. When she nodded, he picked her up easily so that she could slip a leg over Gringolet’s back and settle herself in the saddle. He started to lead the horse towards the road, but paused again. “Cym?” he asked, looking up and realizing how odd it was to see the small woman from that angle.

“Hm?” she asked. The light caught the tendrils of hair escaping her tight braid to form a halo around her head.

“Did you know?” Gawain asked slowly. “When I left? About…”

Cymbeline was quiet for a long minute. “Not for sure,” she said finally. “I suspected, though. But… I couldn’t let a suspicion be the reason you never saw your family again.” She said the last part very fast, and in a well-rehearsed manner. “I couldn’t let that be their fault. I know it wouldn’t have been on purpose, but I couldn’t let you blame me, or them, for that, especially if they didn’t come back.”

Gawain nodded slowly and started to lead Gringolet towards the road again. “I understand. I’m not happy about it, mind, but I understand.”

“You’ll love them,” Cymbeline smiled down at the top of his head. “They’re amazing.”

“I can’t wait to meet them,” Gawain grinned.

“And they can’t wait to meet you,” Cymbeline leaned down to kiss him deeply. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I know,” Gawain murmured, stealing another kiss before she could straighten up. “I’ll see you again soon.”

“Very soon,” Cymbeline grinned, sitting up tall in Gringolet’s saddle. “Let’s go, boys,” she glanced over at Galahad and Lamorak, kicking Gringolet gently in the sides to spur him on. She glanced over her shoulder one more time and smiled back at Gawain before they reached the road, then dug her heels in and was off, Lamorak and Galahad just behind.


	20. Chapter 20

The next morning, the camp was packed up and ready to go within half an hour of sunrise. It seemed that everyone was very excited to reach Camelot. Even Evaine and her son had been securely bundled in the back of Ban and Helaine’s cart, although she was clearly uncomfortable.

“I’ll be alright,” she chuckled slightly when Arthur checked in on her. “I’d much rather be where we’re going than spend an extra day in the back of this cart.”

Arthur smiled and bid her farewell, continuing his round of the caravan to make sure everyone else was ready. At the front of the line, Bors and Kei were already on their horses, the creatures prancing nervously from the excitement and anticipation radiating off of their riders. “Are we leaving yet?” Bors grumbled, shifting in his saddle.

“Yes,” Arthur smiled, mounting his own horse. With a wave back at the first cart, the caravan started off for Camelot.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Cymbeline, Galahad, and Lamorak rode through the afternoon and night, finally arriving back at the fort midway through the morning. Cymbeline led the others straight to the round table room in the villa, stopping only to leave the horses with Jols at the stables. They entered in the middle of a table meeting, although the room immediately fell silent.

Guinevere rose smiling. “Galahad, Lamorak! Welcome back!”

“Where’s Arthur?” Bedivere asked immediately.

“He’s leading a group of our people here,” Lamorak replied. “My and Grav’s families, Galeschin’s, Bors’s, and a few others.”

Guinevere nodded. “We’ll make sure things are ready for them. Do you have any idea how long it’ll take for them to get here?”

“A few more days,” Cymbeline said. “Probably two or three, possibly four, depending on how much rain there is and how bad the mud gets. Carts can be hard to drag through that stuff.”

Guinevere nodded again. “We’ll have the barracks prepared; they’ll need somewhere to stay, at least for the time being.” She turned to Cymbeline. “What did your and Kei’s scouting mission turn up?”

“Morgana and Nimue’s forces are closing in on us,” Cymbeline replied. “They’ve blocked off most of the roads away from the fort with either blockades or ambushes. The road that Arthur is taking is the last of the main routes they haven’t gotten to. We’ll have to watch that one to make sure they don’t close in on it, at least not before Arthur and the others get back, and keep an eye on the others to make sure the Woads don’t close in on us further.”

Guinevere nodded. “We’ll work with Ganis and his men to monitor the roads,” she said, turning to look at the Breton captain of the guard, who nodded in affirmation. “How long did the three of you ride?” she asked, turning back towards the new arrivals.

“Since a little after midday yesterday,” Galahad replied.

“No wonder you look so exhausted,” Guinevere said. “Get some rest for the remainder of the day. We’ll need you back tomorrow, though.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

“Come on,” Cymbeline grabbed Galahad by the arm and steered him away from the barracks. “I want to show you something. You can come too.” She called the last phrase over her shoulder to Lamorak, who shrugged and followed along.

Galahad and Lamorak followed Cymbeline through the streets of the fort; the small town was already busy, full of people enjoying the slightly warmer weather and sunny—for the time being—morning. Stepping into the side addition of the fort’s tavern, they entered the over-filled home of Bors and Vanora. Inside, they found Vanora and Olwyn, along with a small collection of children.

“Welcome back!” Vanora beamed, making her way through the children on the floor to embrace Cymbeline. “We weren’t expecting you until later tonight or…” she trailed off as Galahad and Lamorak stepped into the room. With a grin, she hurried forward and pulled Galahad into a bear hug to rival one of Bors’s. “Oh, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you,” she stepped back, her hands remaining on Galahad’s arms as she looked him up and down. “Where’s Bors?”

“He’s on his way,” Galahad replied. “Along with Gawain and Galeschin’s families. He found his father and brought him back, too, and…”

“And what?” Vanora demanded.

“Well, he’s told you about the woman he was with back in Sarmatia?” Galahad immediately regretted ever bringing the subject up.

“Yes, and that she had died in childbirth after he left,” Vanora’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me that she didn’t?”

“Well, no,” Galahad replied. “She did die, but… the child didn’t.”

“Really?” Vanora’s face relaxed. “Did the child come back with you?”

“Yes,” Galahad nodded. “He’s a boy, named Elyan. He’s nearly twenty, very clever, and a decent fighter, if a little…”

“Excitable?” Lamorak suggested.

“That’s the word,” Galahad laughed.

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him,” Corentin, one of Vanora’s 8-year-old twins piped up. “I like having older brothers.”

“Another one just means that we’ll have another person to play with,” Yannick, the other twin, grinned.

“You mean ‘torment’?” Vanora arched an eyebrow.

“No,” the twins chorused.

“Right,” Vanora shook her head, smiling. “Well, welcome back, and to you too,” she looked around Galahad at Lamorak. “Did your family return with you?”

“Yes,” Lamorak grinned.

“In that case, I look forward to meeting them,” Vanora smiled.

“I brought them here to meet the triplets,” Cymbeline spoke up, and Galahad noticed the small child held in her arms. The baby was dressed in a simple shift and pants, and was waving around a little soft toy, babbling happily. She had downy bronze curls and big blue eyes, and reached towards Galahad when he came close, opening and closing her empty fist in a grabbing motion. “Careful, she will yank your hair,” Cymbeline grinned as she passed Bella over. “Her name is Bellicent, after my mother.”

“She looks like Gawain,” Galahad laughed.

“Doesn’t she?” Cymbeline grinned.

“Hello there,” Galahad grinned at the baby, bouncing her slightly on his hip. “I’m your uncle Galahad. It’s nice to meet you.”

Cymbeline laughed as she crossed the room, another baby in her arms. “This is Rhience. That’s Lot,” she pointed towards Sallem, Vanora’s five-year-old, who was playing with the baby boy.

“He doesn’t look like either of you,” Galahad teased, reaching a hand out towards Rhience, who grabbed his finger curiously and tried to pull it into his mouth.

“No, he doesn’t,” Cymbeline grinned. “Although my Uncle Jorah swears that he looks like my father did when he was little, so I suppose his name is fitting. And watch out, he’s teething.”

“Ow,” Galahad carefully pulled his hand away from Rhience’s grip as the baby chomped down with an emerging tooth. “I can feel that.”

“Who’s this?” Lamorak asked, picking up a baby that had crawled over and started pulling on his trousers.

“That’s Jennie, Vanora’s baby girl,” Cymbeline replied. “She’s about a month and a half older than mine.”

“Here, I’ll trade you,” Vanora grumbled, swapping two-year-old Llamrei for Jennie. “You all look hungry; I’m guessing you rode all night?”

“Yes,” Cymbeline followed Vanora through to the tavern’s kitchen.

“Well, there’s some leftover oatmeal from this morning,” Vanora called over her shoulder. “Or I can make something else up before I start getting ready to open for the day.”

“Oatmeal is fine, Van,” Cymbeline smiled gratefully. “We’re just hungry.”

“Well, there are also some early berries—careful, they’re a little bitter—and I’ll bring you some bread and bacon,” Vanora continued.

“Do you want a hand?” Cymbeline asked, watching as Vanora started bustling around the kitchen, baby Jennie still on her hip.

“No, I’m alright,” Vanora called. “And Lamorak, you can put Llamrei down at any time, he just fell and bumped his knee and started crying, so I picked him up.”

“Okay,” Lamorak grinned. He babbled at the toddler in his arms, earning happy giggles that contradicted the lingering tears on the boy’s face.

“Go ahead and sit down,” Vanora called over her shoulder.

Knowing better than to contradict the fearsome woman, the knights filed out into the dining room of the tavern, where they found a few of the older children. “Cymbeline!” Tyra and Sebille squealed, jumping up and running to hug the young woman. Ten-year-old Gilly grinned and waved at Galahad, but returned his focus back to the object on the table in front of him.

The knights sat down at the table with the children. “What are you looking at?” Galahad leaned to peer over Gilly’s shoulder.

“Cymbeline said that if I can learn to take care of a weapon, that it’s the first step to learning to use one,” Gilly explained, showing Galahad the knife he was sharpening, “so I’ve been helping Tyra and Sebille and Tristan with theirs.”

“Well, it looks like you’re doing a very good job with it,” Galahad smiled.

“Uncle Galahad?” Tyra asked, looking up from her own work, fastening fletching to arrows.

“Yes?” Galahad said, shifting Bellicent on his lap.

“If you’re here, does that mean our father is back too?” Tyra asked.

“Well, not just yet,” Galahad explained. “He’s on his way, though. He’ll be here in just a few more days. And he’s very excited to see all of you.”

“And he’s bringing a new big brother with him!” Corentin popped up on the bench beside Gilly.

“Yes, that’s right,” Galahad nodded.

“A new big brother?” Sebille repeated.

“What do you mean?” Tyra asked.

“Your parents will explain when your father gets back,” Galahad replied. “I’m not sure that they—or at least your father—will be entirely happy that I told you in the first place. But I will say that your brother is a very friendly and nice person, and I’m sure you’ll all like him very much.”


	21. Chapter 21

The next few days were a flurry of anticipation and activity in the fort. As soon as word of Arthur’s return spread, a hope that the occupants of the town hadn’t realized they’d lost returned to their hearts, and a fresh spring was in just about everyone’s step. Preparations for a celebration to welcome Arthur and the new arrivals with him, and the barracks were readied to house everyone until more permanent housing could be found or built.

“So, once Gawain’s back, where will you two live?” Bedivere asked Cymbeline one afternoon while they patrolled the edge of the forest near the fort. “You’re welcome to keep staying with me; it can’t hurt to have extra hands to help with the babies.”

“Maybe,” Cymbeline said. “But once Lucan and Griflet come back, things are going to get crowded in your little apartment. Also, I’m sure the two of them are tired of sharing a bed.”

Bedivere laughed. “Probably. Both of them keep accusing the other of kicking them in their sleep. And half the time, I wake up with Lucan in my bed because Griflet rolled over and pushed him onto the floor.”

“See!” Cymbeline asked. “I think they’d like it if I moved back out so they could have their own beds again.”

“But they do like having you there,” Bedivere protested. “And I know Lucan especially loves the babies—even when they were still waking up a few times every night, he liked having them around.”

Cymbeline smiled. “And I have certainly appreciated all of the help that you’ve all given me, but I just think it’ll be a little too crowded. It was crowded enough with just the three of you and the four of us. I’m amazed we were able to cram seven people into that apartment, even if three of them were tiny ones. I think eight would just fill it to bursting.”

Bedivere laughed. “Maybe you’re right. But where are you going to go? It’s not like the rooms in the barracks are any bigger.”

“They are, a little,” Cymbeline sighed. “But no, that’s not a long-term solution either. We’ll have to find somewhere else. But, on the bright side, that’s not something I have to worry about just yet.”

“Well, if you’d like, I can watch the babies the night after he gets back,” Bedivere grinned cheekily. “They can stay with me, you guys can go back to your room in the barracks without having to worry about them…”

Cymbeline shot him a glance that carried the warning of some sort of blow to follow any further discussion on that particular topic, and Bedivere grinned again. They fell silent as they continued to ride, watching the trees and brush carefully.

“How much longer do you think they’ll be?” Bedivere asked finally.

“It’s been dry the past few days,” Cymbeline replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they arrived tonight, but I don’t think they’ll be later than tomorrow.”

“I think it’ll be tonight,” Bedivere said.

“And what makes you so sure?” Cymbeline retorted, eyes on the forest.

“That,” Bedivere pointed off into the distance, and Cymbeline followed the line of his arm. A smile played across her lips when she saw the line of carts and riders heading for the fort.

“Come on,” Bedivere grinned. “We’ll meet up with them as we follow the line of the forest, and we can ride back with them.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Cymbeline laughed.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain grinned as he saw the pair of riders approaching the caravan. “Hello,” he nodded as they approached.

“Good afternoon,” Cymbeline said pertly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yes, it’s totally shocking,” Bedivere grinned.

“What are you two doing out here, though?” Gawain asked.

“Checking the woods for Woads,” Bedivere replied. “They’ve been creeping closer and closer every day. We’re trying to monitor their movements, but it’s hard when we can’t usually even tell when or where they’re moving.”

Gawain nodded. “We haven’t seen any sign of them on the road, if that helps.”

“It just means that they haven’t closed in on that road yet,” Cymbeline sighed. “They’re already blocking the others.”

“We should really send a patrol down this road to make sure they didn’t close in behind you,” Bedivere mused.

“For now, we should go back and give our report,” Cymbeline said. “Anyways, I’m sure Arthur and the rest of you will want to be caught up on what’s happened over the past year.”

“Kei’s filled us in on a lot, but there are still some holes,” Gawain agreed.

“I’m going to ride ahead and let the fort know you’re close,” Bedivere said.

“Do you want me to come along?” Cymbeline asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Bedivere grinned. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“See you later,” Cymbeline laughed as Bedivere rode off. She fell in beside Gawain, neither of them speaking. “Did you tell your family about me?” she asked.

“Some,” Gawain replied. “My step-father doesn’t want to hear it; he served Rome in Britain, under Arthur’s father, and doesn’t have very positive opinion on Woads.”

Cymbeline smiled slightly. “Well, considering the way my people have harried the Romans since they arrived here, I’m not entirely sure that I even blame him.”

“There’s something else you should know,” Gawain said slowly.

“What is it?” Cymbeline asked.

“I just don’t want you to be surprised when he brings it up—because I’m sure he will, he likes to brag about it,” Gawain said.

“When who brings what up?” Cymbeline asked, thoroughly confused.

“My step-father—Lamorak’s father—Pellinore,” Gawain explained. “You’re named after your grandfather, right?”

“Yes,” Cymbeline nodded. “He was the patriarch of our clan, Cunobelin. I know that Arthur’s father led his knights against him—according to my uncle, Jorah, they were sent on false information provided by Caradoc, my grandfather’s brother, who took over leadership of the clan when Cymbeline, along with his oldest son, was dead.”

“That’s essentially what Pellinore says,” Gawain said. “Well, he doesn’t think that Caradoc’s information was false, but otherwise…”

“So, your step-father was one of the knights that went after my family,” Cymbeline shrugged. “He did what he thought was right. I can’t blame him for that.”

“There’s more,” Gawain said. “Pellinore wasn’t just there. According to him, he was one of the ones who killed Cymbeline—he says he stabbed him in the stomach, but the killing blow came from Uther himself. He also claims that he’s the one who killed Cymbeline’s oldest son. And even beyond all of that, he’s proud of it. I don’t doubt that he’ll brag about it to you every chance he gets, especially since you have your grandfather’s name.”

Cymbeline swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I can handle it.”

Gawain eyed her up. “I can try and keep him from talking about it, but he seems to do things more when people try to make him stop.”

Cymbeline smiled slightly. “I spent a decade living with Romans who did nothing but bring up how inferior I was to them just because of who my family was. He’ll be no different, except that he knows their names.”

Gawain had his doubts, but didn’t bring up the topic again.

“Galahad’s met them,” Cymbeline said suddenly. “The babies. They love him—and he loves them. They like Lamorak a lot too, but they really love Galahad.”

Gawain laughed. “That’s good,” he said, “considering that Galahad’s just as much a brother to me as Grav and the others.”

“I know,” Cymbeline grinned. “I knew you’d be happy about that.”

“I’ll be happy if they like me,” Gawain laughed. “I’m not really sure that I think they will.”

“They will,” Cymbeline promised. “I’m sure of it. Just… watch out for Bella. She likes to grab hair.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The caravan entered the fort to a flurry of activity. The journey from the gates to the training grounds was lined with the ecstatic civilians cheering the return of their king and two of his beloved knights, but the crowd thinned out near the training grounds and barracks.

They were met in the training grounds by Guinevere, most of the fort’s knights, Vanora, and several of her children. Arthur dismounted and swept his wife up into his arms, then bent down and picked up three-and-a-half-year-old Amr, setting the child on his hip.

Bors went straight to Vanora, pulling her and baby Jennie into a tight hug before cooing over the new baby. He gave each of the other children an equally tight, if one-armed, hug in greeting, kissing the girls on the forehead and ruffling the boys’ hair. “Where’s Dag?” he asked, looking around the group of his family.

“He’s off with Cullwch and Dinadan,” Bran replied. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you when he gets back.”

Bors nodded, satisfied with the explanation, then turned and waved Elyan and his father over to the cluster of his family.

“The babies will be with Olwyn and Galahad at Vanora’s,” Cymbeline said to Gawain. “Introduce me to your family and let’s get them settled in, and then I’ll take you to meet them.”

Gawain smiled as he dismounted. “That sounds like a good plan.” He helped her down from Gringolet, and they headed for the cart that carried his family and their belongings.

“Cymbeline!” Grav grinned, embracing her.

“It’s good to see you again,” Cymbeline grinned. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Grav said. “Come on, we’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Cymbeline followed Grav and Gawain to where their family was unloading themselves from the wagon. “Mother,” Gawain caught Morgause by the arm as she moved past them.

“Yes?” Morgause turned, her expression shifting as she saw Cymbeline. “Hello there.”

“Hello,” Cymbeline forced herself to smile, even though her stomach was doing flips.

“Mother, this is Cymbeline,” Gawain introduced them. “Cymbeline, this is my mother, Morgause.”

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Cymbeline curtsied stiffly.

“Likewise,” Morgause’s smile was clearly forced, but she seemed more comfortable than the old man who stomped up behind her.

“So, this is the Woad whore?” Pellinore spat towards Cymbeline’s feet.

Cymbeline grabbed Gawain’s hand as he stepped forward, his face a storm of rage. She offered Pellinore a chilly smile. “That would be correct. And you must be Lamorak’s father; Pellinore, correct?”

“Yes,” Pellinore stood stiffly, eyeing her warily as though she would leap forward and rip out his throat at any second.

“The one who killed my grandfather and his son?” Cymbeline’s face remained cordial.

“Gladly,” Pellinore snapped.

Cymbeline offered no further reply, turning her attention to the pair of copper-haired boys who stood behind Morgause. “These two,” Grav grinned, pulling the boys forward and clapping a hand on each of their shoulders, “are Gaheris and Gareth, my and Gawain’s baby brothers.”

“Hello,” Gareth smiled, his eyes friendly. “Gawain’s told us a lot about you. I’m glad to meet you.”

Cymbeline ignored the contortion of Pellinore’s face at the words. “I’m glad to meet you too.”

“Those two are Lamorak’s younger brothers,” Grav pointed towards the pair of dark-haired boys that had joined the small family, “Aglovale and Percival. And that’s their sister, Dindrane.”

“Hello,” Cymbeline smiled at the wary trio; clearly Pellinore’s children were more inclined towards his opinion of her than Gareth was.

After a moment of awkward silence, Cymbeline pulled on Gawain’s hand, which she was still clutching, so that he took a step closer to her. “It was lovely to meet you all, really, but I need to borrow Gawain,” she smiled, her voice sugary sweet. “I’d really love for him to meet his children.”

Ignoring the shock on Morgause and Pellinore’s face, Cymbeline pulled Gawain after her, heading out of the training ground. “You didn’t tell them?” she asked as he fell into step beside her.

“It didn’t come up,” he admitted sheepishly. “And I wasn’t necessarily eager to bring it up. I told Grav, but…”

“You were worried about how your mother would react?” Cymbeline teased.

“And Pellinore,” Gawain admitted. “I had honestly planned to tell them before we got here, but it just… didn’t come up.”

Cymbeline laughed and pulled his arm around her shoulders, wrapping her own around his waist. They slipped through the busy streets on their way to the tavern, Gawain absorbing the environment of the fort around him. Camelot felt at the same time entirely foreign and entirely familiar to Gawain—but he was undeniably thrilled to be back. In the tavern, they found Galahad bouncing a screaming Rhience on his knee and looking completely overwhelmed.

Laughing, Cymbeline took the baby from him and rocked him in her arms; he quieted almost immediately, reaching for loose strands of her hair that had escaped her braid to frame her face. “Welcome home,” she teased, looking up at Gawain.

“How have you done that with three of them for the past year?” Galahad grumbled, taking the opportunity to finish his very cold lunch.

“Only seven months,” Cymbeline replied. Without a word, she passed the baby to Gawain, who accepted the bundle without protest, although he looked nervous holding it. “This is Rhience,” Cymbeline brushed her hand over the pinkish-red down that covered the baby’s head. “Jorah, Bedivere’s father, swore up and down that he looked just like his namesake, my father, but now that I’ve met your family, I think he looks a bit like Gareth and Gaheris.”

“You know, I think I agree,” Galahad piped up around his mouthful of food.

Gawain grinned and stared down at Rhience’s face. “I think I agree too,” he murmured, running a finger along the baby’s cheek.

“He’s cuter, though,” Cymbeline grinned, kissing the baby on the head. “Where are the other two?” she turned to Galahad, catching him halfway through a big bite of his food.

Galahad pointed vaguely in the direction of Vanora and Bors’s addition beside the tavern and Cymbeline grinned. “I’ll be back,” she said to Gawain, hurrying off towards the kitchen, stopping to catch Llamrei as he wandered in that direction, redirecting the toddler towards Galahad and Gawain.

“Come on,” Galahad sighed, picking Llamrei up and balancing him on his knee. “Where are you off to?” he tickled the little boy on the side, earning a pealing giggle from the toddler.

Laughing, Gawain sat down next to Galahad. “It’s weird to hold a baby again,” he said. “It feels like it’s been forever.”

“It’s only been since Llamrei and Amr were born,” Galahad grinned. “That’s, what… three years?”

“Something like that,” Gawain murmured, distracted again by the gurgling baby in his arms.

“You were always good with kids, you know,” Galahad said, returning to his breakfast—which he was now unwillingly sharing with Llamrei. “Do you remember when Bran was born?”

“A little,” Gawain replied. “It was the same day that Bagdemagus and Meliodas died.”

“Right,” Galahad nodded. “We went with Arthur to see the baby after he came back with their bodies and told everyone what had happened. You wanted to hold her.”

“And Tristan made me sit down first because everyone thought I’d drop her,” Gawain laughed. “I do remember.”

“And then you told Bors that it was bad luck he’d had a girl first,” Galahad grinned.

“Only because it was what my father had always told me,” Gawain laughed.

“Well, you have a girl now, you know,” Galahad said seriously. “Is it bad luck that she was born at the same time as your boys, and they’re all kind of the firstborn? Or does it only count if she was the first one born?”

“I’m not sure,” Gawain admitted. “But was the girl the first one anyways? Cym didn’t say when she told me about them.”

“I don’t know,” Galahad shrugged. “And I don’t think that I believe that story anyways; after all, Bors ended up with, what, thirteen children? And most of them are either warriors or on their way to becoming warriors.”

Gawain laughed as Cymbeline reentered, a baby on each hip. “Gawain, meet Bellicent and Lot,” she grinned, sitting down on a bench across from Gawain and Galahad. “We call Bellicent ‘Bella’, though.”

“If we’re talking about who they each look like,” Galahad piped up, “then Bella looks just like her father.”

Gawain grinned, taking in the baby girl’s soft bronze curls and wide blue eyes. “And Lot looks just like his mother,” his glance shifted to the chestnut curls and brown eyes of the baby boy.

“By the way, Cymbeline, we were wondering: which one of them was the firstborn?” Galahad asked, a mischievous glint behind his green eyes.

“Lot was,” she replied. “Then Bella, then Rhience. Why?”

“My father had this superstition,” Gawain explained sheepishly. “He believed that if the firstborn was a girl, it was bad luck. We were remembering when Bran was born, and how I had said that to Bors when I met her.”

Cymbeline laughed. “After they were born, Bedivere was teasing me that his mother always said that it was  _ good _ luck for a girl to be the firstborn.”

Gawain and Galahad laughed. “I suppose everyone has a different opinion,” Gawain smiled.

“Maybe it depends where you are,” Galahad said. “Maybe in Sarmatia, it’s bad luck, but in Britain it’s good luck.”

“Well, either way, they’re all wonderful,” Cymbeline retorted.

“They are,” Gawain’s gaze drifted back down towards Rhience, dozing off in his arms. “They really are.”


	22. Chapter 22

Later in the afternoon, Gawain had traded Rhience for Bellicent, who had also fallen asleep in his arms, when Vanora bustled into the tavern, followed by her children—like chicks following their mother hen—and Bors, as well as Elyan and Bors the elder. The racket almost immediately woke the dozing babies, sending Rhience into another round of wails.

“Sorry,” Vanora cringed. “I know how fussy that one is.”

“It’s fine,” Cymbeline smiled. “He’s been asleep for a little over an hour. I would’ve had to wake him up soon so he’s able to sleep tonight anyways.”

“So, these are yours?” Bors boomed, clapping Gawain on the shoulder. Bella stared wide-eyed up at the big knight. “Pretty little thing,” Bors grinned down at her. “Too bad she looks so much like her father.”

Gawain rolled his eyes, but grinned at the comment.

“Here,” Galahad lifted Llamrei, who had also dozed off, up and passed him to Bors. “This one is yours, and I have a patrol to get to, so, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Be safe,” Cymbeline called after him. “Keep an eye out for Woads.”

“Always,” Galahad called back over his shoulder as he slipped out the door.

“Here,” Bran grinned as she took Lot from Cymbeline. “You handle that one, and I’ll take this one.”

“Thanks,” Cymbeline laughed, turning her full attention to Rhience, who continued to cry.

“What do you think?” Bran grinned at Gawain, balancing Lot on her hip.

“They’re amazing,” he grinned back.

“Every one of them is,” Bors nodded in agreement, glancing proudly at his and Vanora’s oldest child.

Cymbeline grinned. “So, I hear you’ve brought another child back with you?”

“Not so much a child,” Bors laughed. “I was with another woman before I was brought here, and she was pregnant when I left. About a year after we got here, I got word that she’d died in childbirth. I didn’t think the child survived, but apparently”—he clapped Elyan on the shoulder and hauled him over as the boy tried to slip past—“he did.”

“Hello,” Cymbeline smiled up at the fair-haired boy. “I’m Cymbeline.”

“Elyan,” the boy grinned.

“Here, take your brother,” Bors passed his youngest son to his oldest. “Oi, where’s Dag?” he turned back to Cymbeline.

“Um, I think he was on patrol with Cullwch and Dinadan this morning,” Cymbeline replied. “They went out the opposite way from me and Bedivere. I’d think that they should be back soon.”

Bors nodded and wandered off, leaving Elyan standing awkwardly with a toddler on his hip.

“That’s Llamrei, by the way,” Cymbeline grinned. “He’s not quite gotten around to being able to pronounce his own name yet, in case you were thinking of asking.”

“That’s good to know,” Elyan grinned at the toddler. “Hello, there. I’m Elyan, your big brother.”

Llamrei yawned widely and wrapped his arms around Elyan’s neck, resting his head on the older boy’s shoulder.

“He likes his sleep,” Gawain smiled. “But watch out—he’s a drooler.”

Elyan’s eyes widened and he glanced down at the boy. Bran laughed. “It’s not so bad,” she reassured him. “It was a lot worse when he was teething.”

“That’s… good?” Elyan said.

The door to the tavern blew open, a gust of cold wind accompanying Dagonet as he entered the tavern.

“There he is!” Bors cried from the entry to the kitchen, heading for his son.

“Father!” Dag grinned, matching Bors’s giant bear hug with his own. “Welcome home!”

“Oi, what’s this?” Bors caught the stump of Dagonet’s right arm and glowered at it.

“I missed a blow with my blade and caught it with my arm,” Dag said simply, pulling the arm away. “It’s not so bad; Cym’s been working with me to strengthen my left arm, and we rigged a shield for the right.”

“He’s getting good with both,” Cymbeline piped up. “Kei and I are both very happy with his progress.”

Bors still seemed unhappy, but let the subject go, settling on enjoying the reunion with his children, and introducing Dag to his older brother and grandfather.

“Here,” Cymbeline passed Rhience to Gawain. “I’m going to go check on Vanora; see if she needs any help. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” She kissed Gawain on the forehead and brushed a finger over Rhience and Bella’s cheeks in turn. She paused to press a kiss to the top of Lot’s head, and then was off towards the kitchen.

“Mom’s hosting the Sarmatians for dinner tonight,” Branwyr said. “There’s no kitchen in the barracks, so they can’t exactly cook for themselves anyways, but it’s also to welcome Arthur and Father and you and everyone home.”

Gawain smiled. “It’s good to be home.”

“It is,” Elyan piped up, looking around. “I know I just got here, but this already feels like home—and it feels good.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Morgause was uncomfortable . It wasn’t the small room she and Pellinore had taken in the barracks—the room was actually larger than the one they’d shared back in the hut in Sarmatia. It wasn’t the pert Woad girl Gawain had introduced them to when they reached the fort, although she could tell that Pellinore absolutely despised the child. It wasn’t even the persistant drumming that had been thrumming throughout the fort since they walked through the gates. In fact, Morgause wasn’t entirely sure what was making her so uncomfortable; she just knew that she was.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at the bare walls of the room. It was lightly furnished, with only a bed, chest for clothes, and small nightstand with a washbowl on top of it. Another pair of chests and a few bags, containing all of her and Pellinore’s possessions—and probably a few of their sons’—had been added to the room, carried in by the boys, but she hadn’t unpacked them yet. The shutters of the room were closed, helping to keep out the cold that fell as the sun set, but she still shivered slightly as she sat. She’d have to pull out some extra blankets for the bed.

Morgause jumped slightly as the door flew open and Gareth and Percival clattered into the room. “Grav and Lamorak are back,” Gareth said. “They said that Bors’s wife is making dinner for everyone to welcome us, and to welcome Arthur back. They’re going to take us there.”

Morgause stood and smiled, drawing herself in so that she stood straight and tall—proud. She brushed out her skirts, mindful of wrinkles from the way she had been sitting, and followed the youngest two boys back out into the hall. “Where’s your brother?” she asked Aggravaine as she joined the cluster of her family in the hall.

“Gawain’s back at the tavern,” Grav replied. “That’s where we’re going—Vanora, Bors’s wife, is cooking dinner.”

“The boys mentioned,” Morgause smiled fondly at Gareth and Percival. “Where is Pellinore?”

“He went upstairs to talk to Ban,” Dindrane replied.

“Galeschin went to get his family to take them to the tavern; I’m sure he’ll bring Pellinore too,” Grav said. “But we can go up, if you’d like.”

“I’m sure he’ll find his way,” Morgause shook her head. “Let’s get going. Dindrane and I can offer to help… what did you say her name was?”

“Vanora,” Grav supplied.

“We can offer to help Vanora with dinner,” Morgause nodded, linking her arm through Grav’s elbow.

The walked together through the crowded streets of the fort. That was when Morgause understood why she was so uncomfortable: everything was so close here. The buildings were close, crammed together inside a tight wall, and the narrow streets were so packed with people that it was sometimes difficult to move. It was so different from Sarmatia, where the village was open, a loose collection of huts and houses, with few people, surrounded by open plains as far as the eye could see. In Britain, even outside the fort, it felt crowded; the forest had been an entirely new concept to Morgause and the others.

“You’ll get used to it,” Grav said softly, patting her hand on his arm. “The part of Gaul I served in wasn’t much different.”

“You were much younger then than I am,” Morgause laughed. “It may be a bit more difficult for me to get used to this.”

Grav grinned and pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, but didn’t say anything more.

It didn’t take them long to reach the tavern. This was one of the largest buildings they had seen so far, with the exception of the barracks; two stories tall, with the second clearly added on later than the first, a large open pavilion out in the front, and a small, even newer, addition tucked against the side. Grav led them inside, leaving the gloomy twilight behind in exchange for a brightly lit, very warm, almost muggy interior. Despite the size of the room, it was already starting to get crowded, primarily with children.

Morgause found her eyes drawn automatically across the room, towards her oldest son. Gawain was laughing, a bronze-haired baby on his hip. As she watched, he leaned down to wrap his free arm around the torso of a squirming dark-haired child, lifted the boy up, and swung him over the bench at the nearby table, seating him among a collection of similar-looking, slightly older children. Morgause stopped short as a toddler ran across her path, making for the still-open door and laughing evilly; Grav bent down and swooped the boy up before he could escape.

“Thank you!” a pretty girl with a long braid of bright red hair followed the boy over to them. She gave Grav a quick, one-armed hug, then relieved him of the child, tucking the boy under one arm as he kicked his legs wildly. “Hello,” she smiled brightly. “I’m Branwyr.”

“She’s Bors and Vanora’s oldest,” Grav explained. “Bran, this is my mother, Morgause. This is… the rest of our family.”

Branwyr laughed. “There’s quite a few of you.”

“Not as many as there are of you,” Grav teased.

“Yeah, and we’ve added two since you were last here,” Branwyr laughed. “My mum had a baby girl, and my father brought back our older half-brother.” She turned her attention to the group behind Grav and Morgause. “I’m sure I’ll catch the rest of your names later. Come on in and settle down; my mother’s making dinner. Now, I have to get this little one”—she swung the boy around so that he was draped over both of her arms and tickled his side, earning more giggles and kicks—“back to his mother.”

Branwyr wound her way through the busy room, stopping when she came to Arthur and a young woman with deep brown hip-length hair. She passed the boy to Arthur before heading towards the back of the tavern.

“Come on,” Grav prompted, tugging gently on his mother’s arm. “I can introduce you to a few more people.”

“Alright,” Morgause smiled weakly. She vaguely noticed her other children wander off into the humid tavern, but followed Grav towards Arthur and the woman. 

“My lady,” Grav smiled and bowed slightly to the woman.

“Welcome back,” she smiled broadly, bouncing a baby in her arms. “Hello,” she smiled at Morgause. “I am Guinevere, Arthur’s wife.”

“I am Morgause,” Morgause bowed slightly, copying her son.

“My mother,” Grav added, grinning.

“Welcome to Camelot,” Guinevere bowed in return. “I’m sure that we will be blessed by your presence.”

“I for one am very excited to meet you,” a new voice said from beside Morgause. She looked up into a pair of kind blue eyes, set to either side of a snubbed nose in a round face sprinkled liberally with dark freckles, and topped off with wild, sand-colored curls. “I’m Bedivere. I’m the chief healer here in Camelot. Gawain and Grav had told me that you were a healer as well; I’d love to learn about your methods.”

Morgause broke out in the first really genuine smile she’d had all evening. “I would love to share them with you, and learn some of yours as well!”

“I look forward to it,” Bedivere grinned, then nodded to Grav and stepped away.

“Come on,” Grav tugged on Morgause’s arm again. “If you’ll excuse us,” he nodded to Guinevere and Arthur.

“Of course,” Guinevere smiled. “It was wonderful to meet you.”

“You as well,” Morgause smiled in return.

This time, Grav led Morgause towards the back of the tavern, heading for the child-filled table that Gawain still stood by, now joined by Elyan and Branwyr.

“Aggravaine!” a boy with short, roughly-shorn dark hair grinned hugely, revealing gaps in his teeth where his left canines should have been. Several of the other teeth looked to be growing in as well, giving his smile an incredibly uneven look.

“What happened to your teeth?” Grav laughed, ruffling the boy’s hair vigorously. “And what happened to your hair?”

“My teeth fell out,” the boy replied, baring his teeth to show off the gaps and growing teeth. “My mother cut my hair because I didn’t comb it when she told me for a really long time, and then it was too messy and I couldn’t fix it.

Gawain arched an eyebrow and looked down at the boy. “And what did you learn from that experience?”

“That combing my hair really hurts, especially if I don’t do it for a long time, so I should just shave my head like Bors,” the boy replied.

Gawain laughed. “That isn’t exactly the answer I was looking for, but I guess it’s good enough.”

The boy turned his attention to Morgause and offered her another toothy grin. “I’m Gilly. I’m ten.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Gilly,” Morgause smiled. “My name is Morgause. I am Gawain and Aggravaine’s mother.”

“Really?” Gilly wrinkled up his nose and looked between the three. “You don’t look like them.”

“They don’t look like me,” Morgause corrected. “But they look a lot like their father.”

“Oh,” Gilly nodded, then promptly turned back around and started chatting with one of the other children at the table.

“One of Bors and Vanora’s,” Gawain explained. “Actually, I think all of these”—he gestured at the collection of children—“belong to Bors and Vanora.”

Morgause’s eyebrows shot up. “That is…”

“Exactly,” Gawain grinned.

“And that is the baby Bors said he was expecting to meet when he came back?” Morgause looked at the child in Gawain’s arms.

“No,” Gawain flushed slightly. “This one is mine, apparently.”

“I never would have guessed,” Grav drawled.

“Cymbeline didn’t know she was pregnant when I left,” Gawain explained.

“He came home to three kids,” Grav said.

“This is Bella,” Gawain hiked the girl up higher on his hip. “I’m not really sure who has the boys right now.”

“So you can’t keep track of your own children, but you’ve been put in charge of keeping track of Bors and Vanora’s?” Grav teased, looking around the table full of children.

“So it would seem,” Gawain deadpanned.

Morgause remained fixed on the baby girl trying to grab onto Gawain’s long hair. She had guessed before he said that the baby was his—with how similar Bella looked to her father, it wasn’t at all surprising—but she was still trying to wrap her head around the baby’s existence, not to mention that there were two more!

“Would you like to hold her?” Gawain asked, noticing his mother’s gaze.

“Yes,” Morgause said, her voice faltering as tears sprung to her eyes. “I would very much like to hold her.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The evening passed in a blur. Morgause met Vanora, learned the names of several more of Bors’s children (and promptly forgot most of them), and was introduced to Arthur’s other knights, Kei, Dinadan, Daniel, and Culhwch, as well as Culhwch’s wife Olwyn. She clung tightly to Bella for as long as she could, only relinquishing the girl in exchange for Lot, who she was informed was the oldest of her grandchildren.

The food was delicious, if unfamiliar. Branwyr, Olwyn, and Cymbeline helped Vanora serve everyone, before finding their own seats at the tables. Cymbeline settled down between Grav and Bedivere, across from Morgause and Gawain, letting Lionel, one of Bors’s sons, sit on her lap. It wasn’t until the girl sat down next to Bedivere that Morgause noticed the similarities between the two; Cymbeline’s curls were chestnut to Bedivere’s sand, and her eyes were a deep brown to his soft blue, but they both had the same round face, pert nose, and smattering of freckles, although Cymbeline’s weren’t as dark as Bedivere’s.

“Is he your brother?” Morgause asked, looking between Bedivere and Cymbeline.

“Cousin,” Cymbeline replied. “Our fathers were brothers.”

“You look very much alike,” Morgause smiled.

“We get that a lot,” Bedivere laughed.

“Your sons look like you too,” Morgause looked down at Lot, seated on her lap, and then over at Rhience, cradled in one of Bedivere’s arms.

“According to Jorah, Bed’s father, Rhience looks just like my own father,” Cymbeline smiled fondly at the smallest baby. “I think, though, that he looks a lot like Gareth and Gaheris,” she looked at Morgause and smiled, “and you.”


	23. Chapter 23

After dinner, Dinadan pulled out a small harp and coaxed Olwyn to sing with him. They sang several ballads, not all of them in a language that Morgause understood, but they were all beautiful songs. Partway through the concert, Vanora sent most of her children to bed; the baby girl, Jennie, stayed asleep in Bors’s arms, while a toddler boy, Llamrei, slept on his older brother Dagonet’s lap.

The sound in the tavern had mostly died down during the music, and stayed low even after Dinadan finished playing. Outside, the drums had stopped as well, and Morgause guessed that most people had probably retreated to the warmth of their homes. The conversation around the table was soft, both due to the drowsiness of those speaking and a desire to avoid waking the sleeping babies that Morgause, Cymbeline, and Gawain were holding.

A sudden commotion outside halted most of the conversations throughout the tavern as its occupants’ attention was drawn towards the door. The noise grew louder and most of the knights rose to their feet. Cymbeline passed Rhience to Grav and followed Bedivere towards the door. Gawain passed Bella to Gareth and had started after them when the door burst open and a man with a close-shaved head and a wild look in his eyes burst in. Morgause noticed quickly that there was a great deal of blood smeared across his arms and chest.

“Bedivere!” the man shouted, and the big healer rushed forward. After a moment of quiet discussion, the man and Bedivere raced out onto the street. Cymbeline and Gawain traded a confused glance before following after. The other knights and many of the tavern’s occupants trickled out after them.

Morgause was still inside, although she was nearing the door, when she heard Cymbeline shout: “Lucan!” As she left the warmth of the tavern, she saw Cymbeline running towards a small boy with sand-colored hair, a pair of cuts across his face bleeding profusely. He was absolutely covered in blood.

Cymbeline dropped to her knees in front of Lucan and cupped his face with one hand, the other tracing the air over the cuts on his face. “What happened?” she demanded as Gawain rushed up behind her and began checking the boy for injuries.

Lucan remained mute as Gawain searched his arms and torso. “Lucan, whose blood is this?” Gawain demanded, finding no wounds besides those on the boy’s face.

Lucan’s lip began to tremble and his eyes filled with tears as he lifted a shaking finger to point towards Bedivere and Ganis, who were leaning over a body they had pulled from a horse.

“Jorah,” Cymbeline gasped, then turned back to Lucan. “Lucan, where’s your brother? Where’s Griflet?”

Lucan’s tears began to spill over as he shook his head, silent sobs wracking his small body.

“Lucan, where’s Griflet?” Gawain leaned down next to Cymbeline, catching the boy’s chin in his hand and meeting the child’s soft blue eyes with his dark ones.

Lucan shook his head again, his eyes drifting towards the body of his father.

“We need to get him to the infirmary,” Bedivere’s voice drifted away from the cluster of people around Jorah. Together, Ganis, Bors, and Kei helped Bedivere lift Jorah and carry him away, leaving one of Ganis’s men standing with Jorah’s horse.

“Take that to the stable,” Arthur instructed the guard before striding towards Gawain and Cymbeline. “Is he alright?” the king looked at Lucan.

“He’s in shock,” Cymbeline replied. “I don’t think he’s hurt, besides the cuts on his face, but he’s in shock.”

Arthur nodded, then turned to look towards where Jorah had been carried off. “I’m going to go see what they can tell me about how Lucan got here. We need to find out what happened.”

Gawain glanced up at Arthur and nodded, then turned his attention back towards Lucan.

“Lucan, can you talk to me?” Cymbeline prodded gently. “We need to know what happened. Where is Griflet? And was there anyone else with the three of you?”

Lucan merely shook his head numbly. Before Cymbeline could ask another question, another guard ran up, eyes wide and out of breath.

“What is it?” Cymbeline asked, standing.

“Another horse,” the man gasped. “It was dragging its rider behind it.”

Even from the distance, Morgause could see the color leave Cymbeline’s face. Gawain stood and rested a hand on her shoulder. Morgause was the first to see the little boy bolt in the direction the guard had come from, a frantic look beneath the blood running down his face.

“Lucan!” Cymbeline cried again, chasing after the boy, Gawain just behind.

Lucan was fast, but Gawain had longer legs. He caught up quickly and grabbed Lucan’s shoulder, whipping the boy around. Morgause saw him shake the boy roughly once, holding tightly to his shoulders, before picking him up and setting him on his hip like a much smaller child. Cymbeline had disappeared towards the gates, the guard following her, and Kei following the guard, but Gawain brought Lucan back towards the tavern. Grav jogged forward to meet his brother.

“What’s going on?” Grav asked.

“I’m not sure,” Gawain replied, coming to a stop in front of Morgause. “This is Lucan. He’s Bedivere’s youngest brother, and Cymbeline’s cousin. Bedivere will be busy for a long time, from the looks of things; could you take a look at Lucan?”

“Of course,” Morgause nodded, handing baby Lot off to Dindrane.

Gawain passed Lucan, who struggled slightly, to Grav. “Don’t let him leave here,” Gawain instructed. “Do you hear me?” he caught Lucan’s chin and forced the boy to look at him. “You’re not to leave the tavern.”

Lucan looked both stubborn and broken at the same time, but he reluctantly nodded. Gawain glanced back to Morgause and nodded, then ran off in the direction Cymbeline had disappeared.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

By the time Gawain reached the gates, Griflet’s body had been bound in the loose tartan of his kilt. Kei was just finishing the wrapping, with the help of one of Ganis’s guard, when Gawain approached; Cymbeline stood off to the side, holding the reins to Griflet’s horse. She stroked the beast’s nose, her hands leaving faint red smears on its hair.

“He’s dead,” Cymbeline’s voice was thick with tears, and she didn’t look at Gawain when she spoke. “He’s fifteen, and he’s dead.”

Gawain looked at the tartan-wrapped bundle. “You should take the horse to Jols,” he said. “It’s hurt; Jols might be able to help it.”

Cymbeline nodded, her eyes focused on the horse’s face. She took a step backwards to lead the horse towards the stables, but the animal’s legs crumpled under it and it collapsed to the ground with a cry. Cymbeline stumbled back, tripping over her own feet. Gawain caught her before she could fall, and pulled her away from the horse, which had begun to thrash on the ground.

Cymbeline buried her face in Gawain’s chest and cried, partly because she couldn’t help herself and partly to drown out the sounds of the dying horse. Everyone around them stood frozen, staring either at the struggling animal or at the too-small body shrouded in tartan wool, blood still seeping through the beige fabric.

When the horse was still, Cymbeline took a step away from Gawain and looked up at him, her eyes still watery.

“I have to go and tell Lucan,” she said softly.

“I’ll help Kei and meet you at the tavern,” Gawain murmured, brushing her hair away from her face before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “If you want to wait, I can tell him.”

Cymbeline gave a little shake of her head. “I’ll do it. It should be me. I’m his cousin.”

Gawain nodded. “It’s your choice.”

Cymbeline looked back up at him. “Go. Help Kei. I’ll see you soon.”


	24. Chapter 24

Most everyone had left the tavern after the commotion, heading back for the barracks. Ban and Pellinore had stayed, as had Galeschin, Lamorak, Aggravaine, and Morgause. Vanora had disappeared to put her baby and toddler to bed, leaving Branwyr and Dagonet with the Sarmatians in the dining room. Olwyn was rocking Rhience, who had woken up and started crying, while Culhwch and Dagonet lingered near the door in case Lucan made a run for it.

Morgause had cleaned the small boy’s cuts with water and rags that Bran had brought her from the kitchen, then bandaged them as well as she could with torn strips of cloth. “They should be treated better, but this will do until we can get to the infirmary tomorrow, once your brother is a bit less busy. We’ll stay out of his way for now.” She smiled gently at the boy. “How do you feel? Do you need anything? Are you hungry, or thirsty?”

Lucan shook his head numbly, still refusing to speak. Morgause didn’t push him, but finished cleaning the blood from his face and carried the bowl back towards the kitchen. As she stepped into the dining room, Cymbeline entered through the front door.

All conversation in the tavern ended. Cymbeline’s hands were red with blood, and there were a few smears on her tear-stained face, as well as up her forearms. Slowly, she made her way over to Lucan and knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers. Lucan’s chin dropped to his chest and his shoulders shook with mighty sobs. After a moment, Cymbeline pulled him into a tight hug, trembling in her own grief.

Gawain wasn’t long behind Cymbeline. He was even more covered in blood than she was; Lucan’s blood was smeared across the shoulder of his tunic, and his arms and hands were coated as well. He stopped to speak to Dagonet and Culhwch before continuing into the tavern, passing Cymbeline and Lucan as he headed for the cluster of younger knights, Olwyn, and Morgause.

“Griflet is dead,” he said, and Morgause could hear sorrow in his flat voice. “He was Bedivere’s younger brother. He and Lucan had gone north with their father, Jorah, to help him win back sovereignty of Clan Cunobelin. As far as we can tell, they were attacked by Woads in the service of Morgana and Nimue on their way back. Griflet was killed instantly and his horse badly hurt, but when he fell, his foot got caught in straps from his saddle, and the horse dragged him back here before dying as well. Jorah has been badly injured, but I don’t know…” his voice trailed off.

Rhience’s wails rose even louder, and Olwyn shushed him, bouncing him in her arms. She looked up at Gawain. “Do you want to take him?” she asked gently.

Gawain looked down at his blood-covered hands. “I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Of course,” Olwyn nodded. “I didn’t think.” She paused. “Culhwch and I can watch them tonight.”

Gawain nodded. “Thank you.”

Olwyn nodded again and turned her attention back to the baby, starting to walk around the tavern as she bounced and shushed him.

Gawain looked back down at his hands. “I should go…” he murmured.

“Do you need help with the boy?” Morgause said softly, resting her hand against Gawain’s arm.

Gawain glanced back at Lucan and shook his head. “Cymbeline and I can take him home,” he said. “We’ll stay there tonight, at least until Bedivere is done.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain and Cymbeline took Lucan back to the little apartment above the infirmary. Lucan vanished into one room, while Cymbeline led Gawain into the other room. A smile flickered across his face as he saw the three bassinets set up along the one wall. “You’ve been staying here?”

“When they were first born, and would wake up every few hours and cry to be fed, I needed the extra hands,” Cymbeline replied. “It’s always helpful to have at least one extra set of hands with the three of them. Beds and the boys were very patient, even when they hardly got any more sleep than I did, and when Rhience had colic.” As she spoke she pulled her sweater up and over her head, then shed her skirt so that she stood in her leggings, undershirt, and knit socks. She through her bloody clothes into a haphazard pile at the foot of the bed.

Gawain followed suit, peeling the still-damp clothes away from his skin until he stood bare-chested, faint smears of blood on his shoulder and up his arms.

“Beds usually keeps water out here,” Cymbeline murmured, slipping back into the main room of the apartment, then returning with a bucket and a bowl. She filled the bowl, then carried the bucket back out while Gawain started to wash the blood from his arms. Cymbeline helped when she returned, the two of them silent as the water slowly turned more and more red. Once the blood was gone from their skin and the water was nearly the color of wine, Cymbeline crossed to the chest at the end of the bed. She pulled a shirt and trousers out of it and tossed them to Gawain. “You smell like you’ve been on a horse for the past month,” a smile hitched the corner of her lips.

“Probably because I’ve been on a horse for the past month and  _ someone  _ didn’t give me time to go and change before dragging me off to meet our children,” Gawain teased gently.

“Well, you can change now,” Cymbeline began to shed the rest of her clothes. “I’m not sharing a bed with someone who smells like a horse.”

Gawain smiled, but acquiesced, changing his trousers, although he opted to leave his chest bare so his skin had a chance to dry, despite the chill of the room. Cymbeline pulled an oversized shirt over her head—Gawain was almost positive that it was one of his—and a pair of short, loose breeches that were hardly longer than the shirt, then sat cross legged on the bed, her back to the wall behind it. Gawain joined her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. They sat in silence for long minutes, staring at the shadows cast on the opposite wall by the moon shining through the window near the foot of the bed.

“It didn’t work,” Cymbeline mumbled, half-asleep.

“What?” Gawain looked down at the top of her head.

“You still smell like horse,” Cymbeline grumbled.

Gawain laughed softly, the movement shifting Cymbeline’s head on his chest.

“Like horse, and sweat, and… dirty hair,” Cymbeline grumbled, moving to lie down on the bed, pushing all of the blankets into a pile at the opposite end.

“I’ll go to the baths tomorrow,” Gawain promised, laying down beside her. He pulled the blankets up over them, then wrapped an arm around her ribs and pulled her close.

Cymbeline pressed herself as close to Gawain as she could, a slight shiver running through her body. He flinched as her cold feet tucked against his legs, but didn’t protest. Her small fingers interlaced with his on the hand that rested against her stomach. 

“I’ve missed you.”

The whisper was so soft that Gawain almost missed it. He buried his face in her hair and took a deep breath, catching a hint of the soap she had used last time she washed it. “I missed you too,” he murmured. He pulled his hand away from hers and started to trace the bare skin of her stomach where the shirt had ridden up. “These are new,” he said, tracing marks along the lower part of her stomach, just above the waistband of her breeches.

“A gift from the triplets,” Cymbeline said wryly. “What’s left of where the skin stretched so they’d fit inside of me.” She took his hand and moved it lower, to a long, ridged bump on the side of her thigh, a few inches above her knee. “That one’s new too,” she said. “I caught a knife while I was on horseback a few weeks ago. She moved his hand back up and pulled the collar of her shirt aside so that he could feel the knot on her right shoulder. “An arrow, when Ysbadaddon attacked us,” she explained. “And I’m guessing you noticed this one,” she moved his hand to her forehead to feel the long mark across it. “From the same night. The same blow that took off Dagonet’s hand made this one.”

Gawain let his fingers learn the new mark on her skin before moving his arm to drape over her stomach again. “I don’t have any new ones to show you,” he laughed softly.

“Good,” she mumbled sleepily.

Gawain smiled and kissed her on the temple. “Sleep now,” he whispered, even as he felt her breathing start to slow as she drifted off. Pulling her close again, he settled himself down to sleep and quickly drifted off.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Even with the babies gone, Cymbeline didn’t get to sleep through the night. Only a few hours after she fell asleep, she woke as a small hand gripped her arm and shook her gently. 

“Cymbeline?” Lucan’s voice whispered.

“What is it?” Cymbeline mumbled, pushing herself up onto her elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep,” Lucan was shaking, and his eyes were red and puffy from crying. Cymbeline doubted that he had any tears left at this point.

“Come here,” Cymbeline sat up. She gave Gawain a shove, rolling him onto his back. “Wake up.”

Gawain groaned, opening one eye to glare at her.

“Move over,” Cymbeline pushed him again, and he obligingly scooted up so that his back was to the wall.

Without a word, Lucan crawled between them, his back to Gawain. Cymbeline pulled the blanket up over the boy’s shoulders, brushing his hair back from his face. Within moments, his breathing evened out, his eyes drifting shut as he fell asleep. Cymbeline sat for a few more moments, watching to make sure he was actually asleep before settling back down herself, facing the boy and ignoring the fact that it felt like she was halfway off the bed. She brushed a stray curl from his face before squirming into a comfortable position and pulling what was left of the blankets up around herself and nodding off once again.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

In the morning, Gawain was thoroughly confused to find Lucan wedged firmly between himself and Cymbeline, both of the others still sound asleep. As quietly and as gently as possible, Gawain eased himself out from the back of the bed and climbed carefully over the foot. He found a shirt that was probably his in the chest and padded out to the main room as he pulled it on. There, he found Bedivere sitting at the table in the center of the room, head in his hands.

“Beds?” Gawain said softly, resting his hand on the young healer’s shoulder.

Bedivere raised his head and looked up at Gawain with red-rimmed eyes. “Kei told me about Griflet,” he said dully. “Where’s Lucan?”

“In there,” Gawain nodded towards the room behind him, “with Cymbeline.” He paused. “What about your father?”

“I think he’ll be alright,” Bedivere mumbled, letting his head drop back down into his hands. “I can’t be sure. We’ll know within the next few days.”

Gawain nodded, taking a seat across from Bedivere. “No matter what, you did everything you could.”

“I know,” Bedivere mumbled. “But it might not have been enough.”

“If he dies, then it’s because nothing could have been enough,” Gawain said. “And that’s not your fault.”

Bedivere nodded slightly, but didn’t speak. They sat in silence for a moment. “Bedivere, go get some sleep,” Gawain said finally. “You’ve been up all night, and Lucan will need you when he wakes up.”

Bedivere didn’t reply, so Gawain stood and pulled the younger man to his feet, then half-carried, half-dragged him into the second bedroom. He sat Bedivere on the bed and pulled the blankets back, then lifted his feet onto the bed and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. Wordlessly, Bedivere pulled the blankets tight around himself and rolled over so that he faced the wall.

Gawain left as quietly as he could, pulling the door shut behind him. After glancing in at Cymbeline and Lucan, he pulled on his boots and tunic, wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, and slipped out of the apartment.

It had snowed during the night—a surprisingly late snow, even though the sun was already starting to melt it away—and Gawain left footprints in the still-white carpet as he walked. Many people were sleeping in after the celebrations of the night before, so the small city was quiet, what sound there was muffled by the snow.

In the tavern, Gawain found, to his surprise, his entire family. Dindrane was helping Vanora with the youngest children, and he caught glimpses of Morgause bustling around the kitchen through the back doorway.

“Good morning,” Pellinore greeted him gruffly.

“How’s Lucan?” Grav asked, looking up from the meat he was cutting for Corentin.

“Sleeping,” Gawain sat down across from his brother. “Beds too; he was up all night.”

“Cymbeline?” Grav returned his attention to the plate in front of him, making a final cut before passing it to Corentin.

“Asleep,” Gawain said.

“Arthur took Galahad, Kei, Bors, and Dagonet out to see if they could find out what happened,” Grav said.

Gawain nodded. “I was hoping to catch them before they left. I wanted to go along.”

“They left just after dawn,” Grav said. “I only know because Galahad ran into his door on his way out, he was so tired. The sound woke me up.”

Gawain smiled slightly. “That sounds like him.”

“Culhwch and Olwyn still have your children, as far as I know,” Grav added.

Gawain nodded. “I should probably go around there and see if they need any help.”

“Looks like they beat you to it,” Grav pointed towards the door, where Olwyn was bustling through, a baby in each arm, followed by Culhwch, who carried Rhience.

“Here you go,” Olwyn handed Bella to Gawain without prelude. “They actually slept pretty much all night, so they should be fine. I’ll get you some oatmeal for them.” She passed Lot to Pellinore and headed towards the back.

“Thank you,” Gawain called after her.

Culhwch sat down beside Gawian, Rhience asleep on his shoulder. “He screamed for about an hour before he wore himself out and slept the rest of the night,” Culhwch yawned.

“Sorry,” Gawain winced.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Culhwch shrugged. “That’s not why I’m tired. Olwyn’s been tossing and turning all night every night for the past few weeks and she keeps kicking me. I guess it’s only fair since the baby’s kicking her, but I still wake up every time.”

“Olwyn’s pregnant too?” Gawain asked.

“How have you not noticed?” Culhwch laughed. “I mean, don’t tell her I said that, she’ll kill me, but still. It’s starting to get obvious.”

“I’ve hardly even seen her since I got back yesterday,” Gawain laughed. “I just hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes, this year has been very… productive all around, it seems,” Culhwch joked. “Vanora, Cymbeline, Guinevere, and now Olwyn. In another few months, those five will be running around, and then mine and Olwyn’s will be after them a few months later. They’ll be unstoppable.”

Gawain laughed as Olwyn returned, skillfully balancing several bowls of oatmeal on a round tray. She passed two each to Gawain and Culhwch, one to Pellinore, and kept one for herself. “Now, do you know how to feed a baby?” she teased Gawain and Pellinore.

“I might be a little rusty; it’s been a few years since Llamrei and Amr needed help with their food,” Gawain laughed, “but I think I can manage.”

“It’s been a few more years than that for me, but I’m sure I can figure it out,” Pellinore said gruffly, holding Lot very stiffly with one arm while he mixed the oatmeal with his free hand.

“Well, if you need any tips, feel free to let me know,” Olwyn smiled winningly. “And watch out for that one; he likes to spit his food out.”

The warning came too late as Pellinore fed Lot his first spoonful of oatmeal. He had barely moved the spoon away from the baby’s mouth before the oatmeal shot back out in a sticky projectile that splattered all over Pellinore’s opposite arm.

Gawain stifled a laugh at the look that crossed Pellinore’s face, somehow shocked, offended, and horrified at the same time. That quickly changed to a look of firm resolution and he scooped up another tiny bit of oatmeal to feed to the child.

By the time breakfast was over, almost the entirety of Pellinore’s sleeve was covered in oatmeal, and the old knight looked thoroughly defeated. Eventually, Olwyn took pity on him and took Lot; as soon as he had been relieved, Pellinore stood stiffly, straightened his tunic—managing to smear oatmeal down the side of it—turned, and stalked out of the tavern.

“I think he’s taken to grandfather-hood rather well,” Grav said.


	25. Chapter 25

When Arthur returned, he sent Galahad and Dagonet to round up the rest of the knights for a round table meeting. Slowly, his knights—as well as a few of the Sarmatians that he had personally invited to the meeting—began to trickle in, filing to their seats. He watched Bedivere and Cymbeline the most closely; Bedivere was pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and seemed slightly unsteady on his feet. Cymbeline looked more rested, but no more at rest than Bedivere did, or than Arthur felt. Once everyone was seated, he took his own seat.

“This morning, myself, Bors, Dagonet, Galahad, and Kei rode out in search of the site where Jorah and his sons were ambushed last night,” Arthur explained. “We found the bodies of his men, along with several Woads, all of which had a white handprint somewhere among the rest of their paint.”

“That is the sign of the Lac,” Bedivere said.

“They’re a clan in the north that, according to legend, has old magic in their blood,” Cymbeline’s voice dripped with disbelief. “They were said to be sorcerers and witches.”

“So why would their symbol be on the armor of Woads attacking the chief of Clan Cunobelin?” Arthur asked.

Bedivere shrugged aimlessly, his eyes unfocused. Cymbeline looked more pensive. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “If I remember my geography well enough, they’re not far enough north that Jorah would have infringed upon their lands while he was fighting to get Cunobelin back. Unless they were allied with Caradoc and he called for their aid when he heard about Jorah coming.”

“But why follow them this far south just to attack him?” Galahad asked. “Why not do so up in the north?”

“Unless the reason Jorah was coming back south was because he had lost the fight with Caradoc and was trying to get away from the Lacs,” Kei suggested.

“Did Lucan say what happened in the north?” Bors looked first at Bedivere, who shook his head numbly, then at Cymbeline.

“Lucan’s hardly spoken a word since last night,” Cymbeline sighed. “I tried to ask him about it this morning, and he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Do we know where the Lacs’ allegiance lies?” Arthur asked, looking around the table. “If they were allied with Caradoc, then it would explain why they came after Jorah, but otherwise…”

“If not, then we still don’t know what they were doing here,” Bors finished grimly.

“Cymbeline, see if you can get anything out of Lucan,” Arthur said. “We need to know what’s going on, and whether we need to prepare for a larger-scale attack if the Lacs will continue searching after Jorah. It would also be good to know what happened in the north; if Caradoc is still the king of Cunobelin, then it’s highly unlikely that we can still count him among our allies, since Guinevere gave Jorah her support.”

“But if not, we can’t let it get out that Jorah is gravely injured,” Gawain said. “If that news got to the north, clan Cunobelin would fall and be absorbed by another clan, probably one with Morgana’s support—which would only make her even stronger.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Through the rest of the afternoon, Bedivere tended to his father in the infirmary, Lucan sitting by Jorah’s bedside, while Arthur and the other knights organized patrols, watches, and preparations for any further attack from the Lacs. As the sun was beginning to set, Cymbeline found herself on the Wall, along with Branwyr, Dagonet, and, to her surprise, Gareth.

“What are we doing up here?” Gareth shivered slightly as the air chilled.

“Watching,” Cymbeline replied.

“Waiting,” Branwyr added.

“For what?” Gareth grumbled.

“For anything,” Cymbeline smiled slightly. “Keep your eyes on the treeline—if you see any movement, say something. Even if it turns out to be nothing. We need to watch for the Lacs; if they mount another attack on Jorah, we need to be prepared.”

Gareth nodded and turned back to face over the wall, eyes glued to the treeline.

“Spread out,” Cymbeline instructed the others. “Cover as much of the Wall as we can, but stay within speaking distance of one another. And stay below the battlements; we want to see them without them seeing us. If they know we know they’re there, it’ll make them move all the faster.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain and Bors rode out of the fort together, Elyan tailing them. Arthur had sent them on a twilight patrol, just to follow the closest edge of the forest. Another patrol had left just before them to check the treelines around the back of the fort.

“Stay out of the forest,” Gawain cautioned the boy behind them. “Keep away from the trees. Don’t give the Woads a reason to shoot you, if they’re actually there.”

“What are we looking for?” Elyan asked, sounding slightly afraid.

“Anything that moves,” Bors growled. “Woads can be hard to spot; they’ve grown up hiding in these woods, and they know them like we never will. Any movement you see—any, mind you—is probably them.”

“What about animals?” Elyan asked, eyes glued to the trees.

“There aren’t too many animals running around at this time of day,” Gawain explained. “And very few of those are big. Mostly mice, rats, rabbits. The odd deer.”

“Stay close,” Bors instructed. “The last thing you want is to get caught in a Woad ambush on your own.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Galahad led Dinadan, Lamorak, and Lancelot out towards the back of the fort to search for Woads.

“Lancelot, keep close!” he scolded the boy, who was lagging behind. Wordlessly, he spurred his horse up beside Galahad’s, then matched pace with Galahad’s mount. Galahad eyed the boy. He and Griflet had been close friends, often inseparable, and Lancelot, usually chatty and cheerful, had been uncharacteristically quiet all day. “How are you?” Galahad asked softly.

“Fine,” Lancelot bit out.

“I’m sorry about Griff,” Galahad said. “He was a good lad. He would have made a great knight one day.”

“We were going to be knights together,” Lancelot said. “Ever since we met, it’s all we talked about. When we finally convinced Arthur and Cymbeline to let us start training, we were so excited.”

Galahad nodded. He remembered the discussions that had led up to that decision. They had been heated; Arthur said that he didn’t want to send any more children into battle, while Bors had argued that the more training they had, the more likely they were to survive life at all, whether or not they became knights. Galahad had never been sure what had tipped the scales in favor of training the boys, but they, and several of the others, had finally been allowed to begin training almost four years ago.

“Now it’ll just be me,” Lancelot said softly. “Griff will never be a knight, and I’ll be one all on my own. I’ll never… spar with him again, or play pranks on Dag and Bran and Bedivere, or…”

“I know,” Galahad said simply. He remembered the pain of losing other knights—his friends—since he was well younger than Lancelot and Griflet.

“How do I do it?” Lancelot sniffed, trying to keep himself from crying in front of the other knights. “How do I keep trying to become what Griff and I dreamed about becoming together without him?”

“You do it  _ because _ you and Griff dreamed about it together,” Galahad replied. “That’s how you honor him.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

“Are you scared?”

Gareth jumped at Cymbeline’s voice by his side.

“Sorry,” she grinned, torchlight from the fort below lighting her face enough to see in the dark. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright,” Gareth smiled slightly.

“Are you scared?” Cymbeline asked again.

“Of you?” Gareth grinned. “No.”

“Maybe you should be,” Cymbeline’s smile faded. “I am a Woad, after all.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Gareth repeated. “Gawain and Grav trust you, and I trust them.”

“You hardly know them,” Cymbeline pointed out. “They’ve been gone almost all your life.”

“But I trust them,” Gareth repeated. “And I’ve always had a good sense of who to trust.”

Cymbeline smiled. “That can get you into trouble, you know.”

Gareth shrugged, eyes on the forest beyond the Wall.

“That’s not what I meant, though,” Cymbeline said. “I meant are you scared of them—of what’s out there.”

“No,” Gareth replied.

“Well you should be,” Cymbeline said. “The night is dark tonight, and full of terrors. The Woads will attack us tonight.” 

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Arthur met the returning patrol on top of the fort’s wall, near the stairs leading up to the great Wall itself. “What news?” he asked.

“The forest is full of Woads,” Gawain replied. “We could see them all along the treeline.”

“Behind the fort as well,” Galahad added.

“What about north of the wall?” Bors asked.

“It’s hard to tell from the distance and in the dark, but Branwyr says that she’s seen movement,” Arthur replied. “Cymbeline insists that they’ll attack tonight.”

“Arthur!” the call came from the fort below.

Arthur and the knights turned to look down. Below them, clustered together on the street, were Ban, Pellinore, and their sons. “My lords!” Arthur called down to them. “What do you need?”

“We’ve come to fight for you,” Ban brandished a heavy battleax.

“My lords,” Arthur shook his head. “I promised you that you would not have to fight any more if you came with me to Britain! I cannot ask this of you.”

“You never technically promised that we’d never have to fight any more,” Grav piped up from beside Gawain, grinning. “You just said that we’d never be forced to fight for the Romans or worry about conscription.”

Arthur glanced at him and arched an eyebrow.

“And you didn’t ask it of us,” Bors the Elder shouldered Ban and Pellinore aside to stride to the front of the group. “We offered.”

“This is our home now,” Gorlois stepped forward as well. “We’re going to defend it, alongside those who have called it home for their entire lives.”

“Alongside those who have called it home for as long as they can remember,” Grav said softly, placing a hand on Gawain’s shoulder.

Gawain glanced over his shoulder at Grav, then turned back to Arthur. “We made the same choice, once.”

Finally, Arthur nodded. He turned back to look down at the Sarmatians on the ground. “We will welcome you at our sides tonight, my friends!”


	26. Chapter 26

Cymbeline crouched on the Wall below the battlements. There were more warriors on the Wall around her now; most of Ganis’s archers had come up to join her and the other knights, spaced out every few feet along the Wall. The rest of the archers, guards, and knights were on the lower wall around the fort. Cymbeline would join them soon, but for now she knelt beside Gareth on the Wall, eyes glued to the distant forest.

“Look!” Gareth gasped, pointing.

Cymbeline followed the line of his arm towards a tiny glimmer of light hundreds of feet across the field. As they watched, breath bated, the glimmer grew into a blaze. In minutes, a line of fire ringed the field along the treeline. “That’s what they were doing all day,” Cymbeline breathed. “They were setting kindling there to burn.”

“Why?” Gareth asked.

Without answering, Cymbeline turned to look behind her. From her position on the Wall, high above the fort, she could see the forests all around them. A murmur from the soldiers on the wall over the gate grew as a thousand points of flame moved out of the trees, the torches illuminating the Woad warriors who bore them.

“You were right,” there was a hint of a tremor in Gareth’s voice. “They did come tonight.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Down on the lower wall, Gawain stood between Grav and Galahad. They watched silently as the torches emerged from the forest, although many of the others around them began whispering together.

“We’re surrounded,” Galahad said softly.

Gawain nodded. “There are a lot of them out there.”

They fell silent again, watching the torchbearers move towards the fort. Just outside of the treeline, a blaze was lit, which quickly raced around the edge of the forest along a line of kindling and firewood that had been built after nightfall.

“They’ve cut off their own escape,” Grav’s brow furrowed.

“Ours too,” Galahad observed.

“They’re overconfident,” Gawain said. “They don’t think they’ll need to escape.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s  _ over _ confident of them,” Grav murmured. “There are a lot of them out there, and not a lot of us in here.”

“If we meet them on the field, we might have a chance,” Gawain said. “Woads are better at ambushes, when they have the element of surprise and the numbers over their targets. In a field like this, even though we’d be outnumbered, we wouldn’t be outmatched. It takes more than one Woad to bring down a trained fighter like us in a combat like this; I saw it all my life fighting them, and I saw it fighting alongside them five years ago at Badon Hill.”

“They can’t handle multiple opponents at once, either—they can hardly handle one-on-one combat,” Galahad added. “If you have someone at your side, you can mow through them like nothing more than grass.”

“Even Cymbeline and Bedivere can usually only manage a single opponent at a time,” Gawain said. “They may be able to cut through that opponent faster than any other Woad could, but they’d be hard-pressed against multiple opponents.”

Grav nodded and looked back out over the fields. The Woads were still bearing their torches, but had ceased their advance on the fort. “Look,” he nodded out towards the line. “Their paint.”

“White hands,” Gawain observed.

“The Lacs,” Galahad frowned.

“They weren’t chasing Jorah because he took Cunobelin from Caradoc,” Gawain said. “They were closing in on us and he saw them. They tried to kill him before he could warn us.”

As they watched, a small group of figures detached from the rest of the army, heading for the fort. When the figures grew nearer, it became easier to make out the figures. At the head of the party strode two women, one slight and fair-haired, clad in a snow-white gown, and the other tall and slender with dark hair, dressed in blood-red robes.

“Who do you think they are?” Galahad murmured.

“I’d hazard a guess at Nimue and Morgana,” Gawain replied.

“Gawain! Galahad!” Arthur called from down the wall. The knights traded glances, then left Grav on his own to join their king. “I’m going down to parlay with them,” Arthur informed them. “I’d like the two of you to come with me.”

“Just the two of us?” Galahad arched an eyebrow, glancing back out at the small party approaching the wall.

“No,” Arthur replied. “I plan to match their numbers.”

Gawain nodded. “Good.” He saw Bors, Kei, and Culhwch behind Arthur. A hand brushed against the back of his elbow, and he turned to find Cymbeline, Branwyr, and Dagonet standing behind him.

“Let’s go,” Arthur turned and headed for the stairs down to the ground, his knights trailing along behind him. On the ground, they formed into a small, loose phalanx; Gawain, Galahad, and Bors stood at Arthur’s sides, Kei, Cylhwch, and Dag behind them, with Cymbeline and Branwyr ranging slightly to the sides and rear.

When the gate had creaked open, Arthur led the way out of the fort. They followed the road until it bent towards the Wall, then strode across open fields covered in brown, dead grass and the remnants of late snows to meet Morgana and Nimue. As they got closer, they got a better look at the women. The woman in white was similar in build and height to Guinevere, but was much skinnier, hardly more than a skin-covered skeleton. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, and once-golden hair was now dull in the light of the torches. She looked furious, her brow furrowed deeply. The final touch to her appearance was a white paint handprint across her narrow face. The red woman was tall and slender, but muscular under her robes. Her hair was waist-length and nearly black, but glimmered with red highlights in the flames of the torches. A small smile played at her lips, but her eyes were as fiery as the torches themselves.

“I am Arthur, king of Albion,” Arthur said, drawing to a halt a few paces in front of them. The knights hung back, as did the party of warriors behind the women, but Bors stood only a few steps behind Arthur, hands on his curved daggers.

“I am Morgana,” the red woman’s voice was deep and melodious, almost musical. “This is Nimue, widow of the warlord Ysbadaddon, and queen of the northern provinces in his death.”

Arthur bowed stiffly. “What brings you to Camelot tonight?”

“We have come to ask you one final time to abdicate your  _ throne _ ,” Morgana’s voice dripped with venom, and she nearly spat the final word. “You have no right to rule over Bretons and Woads and Picts when you yourself are none of the above.”

“I am of this island,” Arthur drew himself up. “I was born here and raised here, by a Woad mother”—

“And a Roman father,” Morgana snapped, “and that is all that matters! You have no right to your throne, and if you refuse to abdicate it now, you and all who stand beside you will die at the hands of those who truly own this island!”

“No-one can own this island,” Arthur said, his voice soft. “It belongs to itself. I have never claimed to own it. I lead my people, I do not rule them, and I lead them only with their support. I was asked to lead the people of Albion by Merlin himself, and I will do so for as long as I am wanted by them. What you want has no impact on the situation.”

Morgana drew herself up so that she seemed even taller. “This is your last chance, Artorius Castus. Step down from your throne now, or you and your people will pay for your arrogance.”

“I will not,” Arthur replied, drawing himself up as well. “And it is you and your people who will pay for this. You will not win this battle.”

“In that case, return to your walls,” Morgana spat. “You will not live to see the morning.” She spun on her heel and headed back towards her warriors, the torchbearers parting to let her pass.

Nimue did not move. “Which one of you?” she mumbled.

Cymbeline shifted uncomfortably, her hands going to the sickles strapped to her back. The other knights stirred as well. On their other side, Branwyr slipped an arrow from the sheath on her hip and nocked it on her bowstring, fingering the fletching.

“My lady?” Arthur seemed genuinely confused by the question.

“Which one of you was it?” Nimue’s sunken eyes met the king’s with a sudden fury. Morgana stopped and turned, her own eyes furious. “Which one of you shot the arrow that murdered my husband?” she screamed, and the flames of the torches seemed to flare.

Before Arthur could reply, Branwyr was next to him, her bow drawn. “It was me,” she replied, aiming carefully at Nimue. “And I would be glad to do the same to you.”

Arthur reached out and pushed her arms down so that the arrow was pointed at the ground. “There is no need for that,” he said quickly, attempting to placate the woman in front of them.

“Give her to me,” Nimue’s eyes were full of tears that began to trickle down her cheeks.

“No,” Arthur replied.

“Give her to me!” Nimue screamed again. “It is my right! Give me the woman who murdered my husband so that I may have justice!”

“Your husband fell in battle,” Arthur said gently. “It was not murder. It was a fair shot. You have no right to her life, or the life of anyone else.”

“Come, Nimue!” Morgana snapped. “You will have your revenge by the night’s end.”

Nimue’s eyes narrowed and she glared at Branwyr. “Go mbristear do chosa ‘s do chnámha,” she spoke the words with absolute hatred, and chills travelled down the spines of the spectators. Bran took a step back as Nimue turned to follow Morgana, their soldiers closing in behind them.

“Are you alright?” Cymbeline fell in beside Branwyr at the rear of the party as they headed back to the fort.

“I’m fine,” Bran forced a laugh. “She was just… odd.”

“And creepy,” Cymbeline chuckled, glancing back over her shoulder at the receding figures. “At least now we know why the Lacs were here. Nimue’s one of them.”

Bran nodded. “But why weren’t they here before?”

“Let’s hypothesize about that later,” Cymbeline suggested, jogging ahead to catch up to Arthur and the other knights. “For now, we have a battle to win.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! This chapter crosses the 100K-word mark for all of my King Arthur fanfiction! I find it oddly appropriate that the 100,00th word of KA fic is the word "the". (To be specific, it's the 'the' in the phrase "still in a low crouch by the fire line")

Back on the ramparts of Camelot , the knights rejoined the line of defenders along the wall. Gawain and Galahad took their positions next to Grav, who passed them bows and half-full quivers. “Not a lot of arrows to go around,” Grav explained. “Ganis brought these around while you were gone.”

Galahad tested the draw of his bow before looping the strap of the quiver around one of the wall’s crenellations so that it hung easily within reach. “We may not need these.”

“Arthur has a plan,” Gawain agreed. “And I somehow doubt that it will involve targeting their forces from here.”

“I’m guessing the parlay didn’t go particularly well?” Grav said.

“Not exactly,” Gawain grumbled.

“It was the same as it has been all winter,” a voice said from behind them. “Morgana demanded that Arthur abdicate, he refused, she said we’ll all be dead by morning. And then Nimue demanded that we give her Branwyr so that she can take revenge for Ysbadaddon’s death the last time they attacked.” Cymbeline poked her head between Grav and Gawain to peer over the wall. “Come on, the three of you. Arthur has a plan. Leave the bows.”

The three men followed Cymbeline along the wall and back down to the ground to where Arthur stood with the rest of the knights. The group was larger than it had been in eighteen years; a quick count left Gawain with twenty-nine knights, including Arthur, and he knew that Bedivere and Lucan were absent. A smile played at his lips. Maybe they did have a chance after all.

Arthur sent Bors the Elder, Ban, Pellinore, Percival and Lancelot to the lower wall, along with Ganis and his guardsmen. Branwyr, Elyan, Gareth, and the youngest knights-in-training, Tyra, Sebille, and Tristan, were sent back to the archers on the upper Wall. The remainder of the knights followed Arthur through the fort to the villa.

“There is a small tunnel that leads out and around the back of the fort from the villa,” Arthur explained. “My ancestors had it built for just a time as this, so that they could escape. We, however, won’t be using it to escape.”

Around the back of the villa, he uncovered a small trapdoor in the ground and opened it to reveal a gently sloping tunnel. “It comes up in the forest a few yards from the treeline. Cut around behind Morgana’s line. We’ll give you the signal to attack.” Arthur looked around the group “I’ll only be sending some of you around this way. The rest of us will go through the gates once the signal is given.” He turned to Cymbeline and handed her the torch he was carrying. “Cymbeline will lead this group. Culhwch, Dinadan, Galahad, Galeschin, Daniel, Gaheris, Aglovale.”

Without another word, Cymbeline passed the torch to Culhwch and lowered herself down through the hole. The Welsh knight dropped the torch down and waited a moment before following Cymbeline through the hole. One by one, the other knights Arthur had named dropped down as well. The king closed the door over them and wordlessly led his other knights back through the fort, which was eerily empty and silent. This time, Arthur led the knights to the stables, where Jols and his hands were already at work readying their horses. The knights helped with the remaining mounts before following Arthur back to the wall, leading the horses behind them.

“Now what?” Galahad asked no-one in particular as they came to a halt near the gates.

Arthur mounted his horse, and the others followed suit. “Now we wait,” Arthur replied. “We need to give Cymbeline and her men time to get in position behind the enemy lines, and we want to let Morgana make the first move. Those on the wall will let loose a volley or two once the Woads begin to move, and then they’ll sound a horn. That will be the signal for the gates to open for us, as well as for Cymbeline and her men to make their attack.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

After a long, dark trek through the tunnel, Cymbeline and her knights emerged in a massive, hollowed-out oak tree in the forest. The glimmer of the Woads’ fire-ring was just visible through the trees around them. Cymbeline crouched against the trunk of a nearby tree and watched as the other knights crept out of the tunnel. Once they were all back out in the open air, they began to creep silently towards the distant gleam of flame.

Cymbeline and Galahad led the way, as they were the most used to sneaking through the British forests. Behind them, the other knights unconsciously paired off; Daniel and Dinadan, Gaheris and Aglovale, and Culhwch and Galeschin bringing up the rear. They managed to make it to the edge of the forest without attracting the attention of the Woads, and hunkered down in the shrubbery near the treeline to watch. Fortunately, there seemed to be few, if any, Woads on this side of the ring of fire, although it was also entirely understandable why they wouldn’t feel a need to defend themselves from behind.

“How are we going to get through that?” Galahad whispered.

“I’m not sure yet,” Cymbeline murmured. “We could look for a low point on the burn line, but I didn’t notice anything like that from the walls while I was up there.”

“Maybe by the time Arthur gives his signal, the flames will have burned low enough for us to jump or climb over the line,” Galahad mused.

“Do you smell that?” Cymbeline whispered. “Tar. The flames won’t burn down for a long time.”

Galahad sniffed and scowled. “You’re right.”

“Maybe we could push the fire’s fuel apart to create a break,” Cymbeline mused.

“If only we’d brought a spear or a pike or something,” Galahad smirked.

“We could use a stick…” Cymbeline mumbled, but she didn’t really think that plan would work either.

“Any other bright ideas?” Galahad sighed, glancing up and down the fire line.

Cymbeline remained silent, contemplating the flames in front of them. “Arthur will wait for Morgana to advance her troops first,” she said slowly. “Otherwise, there’s no point in having archers on the wall. He’ll let them move in, fire off a few volleys, and then ride out to meet them. Maybe let the archers fire another volley once he and the knights are safely past the Woad line, like you did at Badon Hill.”

Galahad nodded. “Probably. That sounds like Arthur.”

“Once the Woads start to advance, we’ll have a brief window to get past the fire line while they’re occupied and before the arrows start flying,” Cymbeline continued. “We have to get over and drop down into the shadows right at the base of the flames so neither the Woads or the archers will be able to see us. We’ll have to be fast. There will be no room for mistakes.”

“What do you mean ‘drop down’?” Galahad asked.

“We’ll climb the trees, scoot out on the limbs that reach over the flames, and drop down on the other side,” Cymbeline was already moving back to where they had left the other knights.

“What!?” Galahad hissed, but the girl was gone. Reluctantly, he followed her back to join the other knights.

“We have a plan,” Cymbeline said, drawing everyone into a small huddle. “I saw a few trees with branches hanging far enough out over the burn line that also look strong enough to bear our weight. We’ll climb up them, and, as soon as the Woad line starts to advance, we’ll slide along the branches—one at a time, mind you—and drop down on the other side of the fire.”

“That’s not a very good plan,” Daniel shifted nervously, staring at the fire.

“Do you have a better one?” Dinadan murmured, resting an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

“We’ll have to be fast,” Cymbeline cautioned. “Once you’re on the other side of the flames, drop down and lay as close to them as you can, and stay still. Otherwise, we’re like to get shot by our own archers.”

“When you land, let yourself roll,” Galahad cautioned. “Don’t lock your knees, or you’ll shatter the bones in your legs.”

“And if you fall forward, don’t fall flat on your hands,” Cymbeline added. “You’ll break your arms that way.”

“This sounds more like a plan to break our bones than to get between the fire and the Woads,” Galeschin grumbled.

“That’s another thing,” Cymbeline said. “We don’t have a retreat. We  _ have _ to fight our way forward. If we don’t, we’ll die. So, no matter what, just keep moving towards the fort.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

As soon as Ban saw the Woad line begin to move, he called his archer’s bows to the ready. He fingered the worn wood of his borrowed bow and the ragged fletching of his arrow and felt a sudden pang of longing for the first time he had fought for a Castus of Britain. To one side of him was Pellinore and to the other was Bors—Bors the Elder, he reminded himself—which made it feel as though no time at all had passed since their tour on the island, despite the fact that they were all more than forty years older. He looked across the field at the ring of fire that silhouetted the Woads from behind and offered a quick prayer to any god listening that his youngest son would survive the night before calling the command to fire.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Cymbeline dropped to the ground as the first volley of arrows whistled towards the Woad forces. She flattened herself on her belly and squirmed out of the way of the next knight who would be dropping from the tree above. To one side, she could feel the heat of the flames, and on the other she could hear the stomp of Woad feet against the half-frozen ground. She felt a wet splatter as something hit the back of her bare hand, the only bare skin visible on her body besides her face, and craned her neck awkwardly around to peer up at the sky as the downpour began, quickly soaking through her knit wool hood. It did nothing to dampen the flames, however, and she heard the thump of Gaheris landing behind her, and then the rustle of him crawling through the grass. She looked ahead and saw another form land softly near the flames there, then disappear down against the ground.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain rubbed his horse’s neck as the beast shifted beneath him, sensing its rider’s impatience. He glanced up, squinting at the clouds gathering overhead as he felt something wet begin to hit his head and hands.

“Rain and snow at once,” Bors grumbled, holding out his hand to catch the soggy snowflakes.

“A bad omen,” Gawain murmured, closing his eyes and letting the cold precipitation hit his face.

“But for whom?” Grav grinned beside him. “Us, or the Woads?”

“How long is Arthur going to keep us waiting here?” Bors grumbled, shifting in his saddle.

“Relax,” Gawain said. “They’ve fired off two volleys already. Once the Woads hit the halfway point on the field, the horn will blow and we’ll go out.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Ban eyed the approaching Woads, gauging their speed and proximity to the fort. “One more volley,” he murmured. “NOCK!” he bellowed, placing a third arrow on his bowstring. “DRAW!” the sound of wood scraping against wood echoed along the wall as the guards raised and drew back their bows. “LOOSE!” the final command was chased by the buzzing of a hundred arrows as they flew out towards the Woad host.

Beside Ban, Bors the Elder dropped his bow to his side as soon as his arrow was free and grabbed for the horn on his hip, blowing a single, long blast on it.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The blast of the horn echoed out over the field as a hundred arrows found their marks in the Woad host. As soon as the cries from the enemy army had ceased, Cymbeline was on her feet, still in a low crouch by the fire line as she waved her small band up. As silently as possible, the eight knights, clustered into three separate groups, made for the rear line of the Woads, weapons at the ready.

Cymbeline and Gaheris were the first to meet their targets. Cymbeline slit a throat with one of her sickles while Gaheris’s sword thrust through the heart of another Woad. Over a dozen more Woads fell at the knights’ hands before one of their quarries was able to get out a cry to warn his companions.

That was when things got truly dangerous.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

As soon as the horn blew, a pair of guards that Ganis had stationed on the gate heaved at the heavy doors, pulling them open as quickly as possible. Arthur put his heels to his horse and spurred it forward before the gate had opened even halfway, and the other knights flowed out after him.

“RUS!” Bors screamed his battle cry as he rode, and the shout was taken up by the other riders, and soon after by the warriors on the wall.

Gawain swung his spiked club at the first Woad he came near, smashing in the man’s face. His horse trampled anyone in its path, and the club swung towards anyone in Gawain’s reach. He downed half a dozen Woads in that first charge, and his club came away with bits of torn flesh, shattered bone, and splattered brain matter, dripping with blood.

The knights gathered together near the fire line as the now-disorganized army of Woads turned to face them, but before the horde could assemble, another volley of arrows, its sound hidden by the death cries of the men the knights had downed, buried in the backs of the men.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

As soon as she had heard the hoofbeats closing in on her, Cymbeline had grabbed the Woad she was fighting, buried her long knife in his throat, and pulled him on top of her as she dropped to the ground. She stayed there for long seconds as the riders went past, the next volley of arrows hit home, and the riders made back for the fort. When the hoofbeats began to grow fainter, she shoved the Woad off of her and leapt to her feet, sickle and knife at the ready as she searched for her next opponent. She saw Gaheris stagger backwards as his opponent rained blows down on the Sarmatian with a heavy metal mace. With a scream, she sprinted towards the Woad, leaping onto his back and burying her knife into the place where his neck and shoulder met. He fell to his knees immediately, and Gaheris took the opportunity to swing his sword down, separating the man’s weapon hand from his arm. Cymbeline dropped off of the Woad’s back, and Gaheris took another swing down into the man’s chest. He pulled out his sword and nodded to her in thanks before turning to his next opponent; Cymbeline paused only to free her knife from the dead Woad’s shoulder before rejoining the melee.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Once their final volley had been released, Ban and Bors led the majority of the guards down the stairs to the street of the fort. The small army streamed out of the now-open gates of the fort and onto the field. As they headed for the riders continuing to cut their way through the Woad army, Bors led them in another scream of “RUS!” before the two forces met with the clash of metal on metal.

Ban’s first opponent was a young man, hardly more than a boy, who he felled with a slash of his sword and a pang of regret; Galeschin was hardly older than this child. The next Woad he turned to was a hulking mountain of muscle, even bigger than either Bors, swinging twin shillelaghs and laughing viciously. He caught a blow from the first club on his sword and kicked out into the man’s stomach, only to take a blow from the second club in the thigh of the leg he was balanced on, knocking him to the ground. The Woad stood over him, still laughing and brandishing his clubs in a manner that suggested he planned to bash Ban’s skull in. Before the Woad could move to do so, however, a rider streaked past, lopping off his hands at the wrist in a single blow. The Woad was still staring in shock at his handless arms when a second rider passed by, swinging a heavy spiked club into the back of the Woad’s head. 

Ban rolled out of the way of the falling body and stumbled to his feet. He nodded in thanks at Gawain and received a nod in return from the drenched knight, bronze hair plastered to his face and blood splattered up his arms. Gawain nudged his horse with his heels and rode off, leaving Ban to his own devices. Ban adjusted his grip on his sword and grabbed one of the dropped shillelaghs, then turned to his next opponent.


	28. Chapter 28

High above the battle, Branwyr looked out from atop the great Wall. The falling rain and snow was doing nothing to dampen the blazes that surrounded the fort along the treeline on both sides of the wall, and was apparently only making them smoke even more, obscuring the fields in smog.

“Can you see anything?” Elyan asked anxiously.

“No more than you can,” Branwyr kept her voice calm, even though she felt her older brother’s worry deep in her stomach. “Anyways, we should be focusing on the other side. We need to make sure the Woads don’t come up from this side.”

“How would they get up from here?” Elyan asked, looking down at the ground below them.

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, this wall isn’t particularly high,” Branwyr retorted. “It’s not too hard to shoot or even through a grappling hook up here. Our job is to make sure no-one gets close enough to do that, and, if they do, to make sure they don’t get onto the Wall or into the fort. The last thing the other knights need is to win the battle out in the field only to find out a small party has gotten into the fort and taken it hostage.”

Elyan nodded and turned back out to look over the field. “Have you ever seen someone climb this Wall?”

“I’ve seen them try,” Branwyr smirked. “We made sure they didn’t make it the whole way up. The Wall may not be particularly high, but if they’re high enough when they fall, they still won’t live once they meet the ground.”

Elyan shuddered and swept his glance over the field. “Do you think they’ll try to climb?”

“We have to be prepared for whatever they do,” Branwyr replied. “Right here, right now, it doesn’t matter what we think they will or won’t do; we have to be ready for any of it.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Cymbeline ducked a blow from a Woad’s club and stumbled slightly. She swung her sickle up just in time to catch another blow, and a shockwave travelled down her arm. With a sudden burst of energy, she flung herself forward, head-butting the Woad in the stomach and sending him staggering backwards. Before he could get his club up for another blow, her knife had slashed deep into his stomach. They both watched as the wound gaped open and the Woad’s entrails began to spill out. With a cry, the man dropped his club and fell to his knees, his hands grabbing at the guts tumbling out of his body. Another slash of Cymbeline’s knife slit his throat, and blood spurted out onto her face and chest. She swiped an arm across her face, trying to clear some of the blood away.

Cymbeline cried out in shock as a burning pain sliced across her back, from her left shoulder towards her right hip. She dropped to her knees and swung her sickle back wildly. She felt it meet flesh and put all her strength into the blow, then released the weapon and staggered to her feet. When she turned, she saw a woman, at least a decade older than she was, glaring fiercely at her. Blood and water dripped from the woman’s blade, and Cymbeline’s sickle was buried halfway through her left thigh. The woman spat at Cymbeline’s feet and swore at her in Pictish.

Cymbeline lifted her chin, never taking her eyes from the woman’s, and stepped forward. She stepped on the blade, yanking it out of the woman’s hand and into the mud as she reached forward and grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair. She brought her knife up under the woman’s chin, pulling her head back to open up her throat, and dug the point into the Woad’s soft skin. With a grunt, she drove the knife up towards the woman’s brain, then pulled it out sharply, ignoring the blood that dripped onto her hand. She released her grip on the woman’s hair and let her fall, taking a moment to glance around the battlefield.

What she could see between the darkness of the night and the heavy smoke from the fires around them showed a still-raging battle. Cymbeline searched for the other knights for a moment, but could only find a single figure that looked particularly familiar. Leaving her sickle embedded in the dead Woad’s thigh, she bent down to pick up the woman’s rough blade, testing the balance of the weapon. Despite its clearly crude make, it was well-balanced and sat well in her palm.

Turning, Cymbeline swung the blade at a Woad rushing towards her, slamming it into his shoulder. Her knife buried in his heart and he fell at her feet. With a loud cry, she raised the blade over her head and rushed back into the heart of the melee.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain was dragged from his horse by a trio of determined Woad women. He went down fighting and managed to bury his club into the face of one of them, and drew his long knives to deal with the others, which he dispatched quickly. He turned in search of his club, only to have to duck a blow from a Woad’s heavy ax. Gringolet was long gone along with Gawain’s own battleax, but he brandished his knives and growled fiercely at the Woad before launching himself at the bigger man, burying one knife in his right side and the other into his left shoulder as the Woad stumbled backwards and fell, sending them both crashing to the ground. Gawain yanked his knives out of the man’s flesh to slash them across his throat, cutting it wide open.

He climbed to his feet and sheathed a knife in exchange for the now-dead Woad’s ax. The heavy weapon was almost immediately buried in the skull of another Woad, then swung through the neck of a third. Gawain grunted as a wooden club slammed into his right arm, knocking the ax from his grip as the shock from the blow swept through his body. He kicked out to the side, catching the Woad who had attacked him in the balls and sending the man staggering back as Gawain brought the knife in his left hand up. He and the Woad circled each other, the man’s face still drawn with pain. Faster than a blink, Gawain flew forward and tackled the Woad to the ground, the knife racing towards his throat. Somehow, the man was able to get his hands up to catch Gawain’s wrist, holding the Sarmatian’s arm back. They struggled for long seconds before the Woad managed to flip Gawain onto his back, now straddling the smaller knight. Gawain fought against the hand pinning his wrist to the ground as the Woad’s other hand grabbed his throat tightly.

The Woad was so focused on Gawain’s left hand that he didn’t notice when the knight went for his other knife with his right hand and brought the second blade up to slash the man from hip to armpit. The Woad cried out and fell to the side, scrabbling through the mud to get away from Gawain as the knight gasped for breath, racking coughs tearing through his throat. He forced himself to roll over and stagger to his feet just as the Woad began to stagger towards him, roaring, his fists cocked. Gawain braced himself for the blow, but the Woad collapsed two paces from him, his blood pouring out into the mud.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Ban grunted as he swung his sword up to meet a blow from a Woad’s blade.  _ I’m too old for this _ he thought, gasping for breath. Sweat was running down his back, mingling with the freezing cold rain and hot blood from a cut under his left ear. He swung his borrowed shillelagh into his opponent’s ribcage, then twisted his sword around to pull the Woad’s blade from his hand and shoved the point of the sword deep into the Woad’s chest. Pulling the blade free, he leaned on the shillelagh for a moment to catch his breath, glancing around the field. The throng of fighters had begun to thin as the first light of morning brightened the sky above the heavy clouds. The fires were finally starting to die out thanks to the incessant rain and snow that had been coming down all night, but the eye-stinging smoke was still thick in the air. He searched earnestly for his son and sons-in-law, but couldn’t recognize any of the smoke-shrouded figures on the field around him.

Ban grunted and brought his sword up to catch a blow from a Woad that had snuck at him from the side, thinking the old knight wasn’t paying attention. As with so many others throughout the knight, the Woad took a blow from the shillelagh to the side before the sword twisted his blade away and drove into his chest. Ban ducked a swing from a heavy club born by a man that had come up behind the first, swept his shillelagh up hard between the Woad’s legs, and drove his sword upwards, through the man’s stomach and into his chest.

When Ban tried to pull his sword from the Woad’s torso, he found it stuck. Rather than waste time and energy trying to free it, he went for the blade of a Woad he had downed, brandishing that with the shillelagh as yet another Woad ran screaming towards him. Ban countered the woman’s blow with his borrowed sword and rammed the shillelagh straight forward into her stomach, sending her staggering backwards, before he swung the sword around and lopped of her head with a sigh.  _ I’m too old for this _ he thought again as he rolled his shoulders to ease the ache in the back of the neck before searching for his next opponent.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

The sky was beginning to lighten before Branwyr and Elyan saw movement in the mixture of fog and smoke blanketing the field before them.

“There,” Elyan pointed, bringing his bow up and nocking an arrow.

“Good eyes,” Branwyr nodded approvingly as she brought her own bow up. “Ready!” she called down the Wall. On her other side, Tristan raised his bow, an arrow on his string and a look of determination on his face. “Fire!” Branwyr called and the volley flew out into the misty field. They were rewarded with cries and grunts as their arrows hit home. “Ready!” Branwyr lifted her bow again, another arrow on the string. “Fire!” she called several seconds later, the arrows flying out into the smog again and once more eliciting cries from the Woads hidden in the low clouds of moisture and smoke. Branwyr paused and listened, trying to figure out if the Woads were continuing towards the wall. She was answered as a wooden ladder clattered against the stone Wall. “LADDERS!” she screamed down the Wall, then raced towards the just-visible stiles of the ladder. “Help me!” she called to Elyan, who rushed to her side to help her push the ladder down. They were rewarded by a squelch and cries of pain as the ladder landed on whoever had been climbing or standing below it.

“Eyes on the ground!” Branwyr called. “Fire at will!” she released several arrows in rapid succession, each of them followed with a grunt or cry of pain. After a moment, she paused to listen again for anyone on the ground below.

“We need light,” Elyan grumbled, squinting into the smog.

“We need wind,” Branwyr countered. “That would blow the smoke and fog away.”

As if in answer to her words, a breeze picked up. The smoke and fog began to recede, and even the still-falling snow and rain began to slow.

“There,” Elyan pointed at a flicker of movement in the fog. Moving in unison, he and Branwyr brought their bows up, nocked arrows, drew, and loosed. The missiles flew with the wind and the smog parted just enough for the archers to see their arrows hit home in a pair of Woads creeping away from the wall.

“Good eyes,” Bran grinned at Elyan.

“Thanks,” the fair-haired Sarmatian grinned back at her. “Good shot. Or, rather, shots.”

“Thanks,” Bran grinned, turning back towards the field. “Keep your eyes open!” she called out. “Don’t let them surprise us!”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Morgana watched the battle as it began to wind down. Beside her, Nimue was furious.

“You said that we would defeat them!” the white-clad woman spat. “You promised me my revenge!”

Morgana ignored the woman’s tantrum. She didn’t care about Nimue or her revenge; all that she wanted was the power that the throne of Albion would bring her. That was all she had ever wanted. But they were losing the battle, and soon Arthur and his knights would come for the sorceress and her ally. All of the souls in the world weren’t worth dying, especially not at the hands of a weak man like Arthur. She spared a glance towards the Woad woman at her side, still ranting; Nimue’s eyes were crazed, and flecks of spittle were flying from her lips as she raged. With a sigh, Morgana slipped a dagger made from obsidian from her sleeve and swung it around, slashing across the other woman’s neck. Nimue’s eyes went from rage to shock as she crumpled to the ground. Morgana caught the smaller woman and lowered her down, cradling Nimue in her arms.

“Shh,” Morgana shushed Nimue as the woman tried to speak. “Hush, child. The darkness will rise from the deep and carry you down into sleep.” She waved a hand over Nimue’s face as she murmured the words of the spell, taking a deep breath as Nimue’s final gasp left her lips.

The woman who stood was younger than Morgana had been, her hair richer and fuller, her eyes glimmering with life. She turned away from the battle and strode towards the forest, stepping directly through the smoldering fire-line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgana's words to Nimue at the end are from the song "Mordred's Lullaby" by Heather Dale.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own the song "Mordred's Lullaby".


	29. Chapter 29

“Arthur!”

The king turned at the sound of his name, searching what remained of the melee for the source of the call. He saw Dagonet jogging towards him, Daniel on his heels. “We found Nimue,” Dagonet explained as he came to a stop in front of Arthur. There was a cut across the boy’s cheek, and he seemed to be bleeding from a gash along the left side of his ribs, but he didn’t appear to be badly injured.

“Show me,” Arthur ordered, setting off behind the boys.

They led him towards a bundle of dingy white rags near the edge of the forest. As they grew nearer, Arthur recognized the pile as Nimue’s body. Her snow-white gown was covered in mud and greyed by smoke from the burning tar and wood, and the front of the gown was soaked in her own blood that had spilled from a wide gash across her neck. Her face was frozen in shock, and she looked somehow even more gaunt than she had the evening before.

“Morgana?” Arthur asked as he knelt to draw Nimue’s eyes closed.

“No sign of her,” Dagonet replied. “It looks like she escaped.”

“We’ll look for her while we search the field,” Arthur said. “We can’t send anyone after her right now.”

“I’ll spread the word,” Daniel nodded and took off.

“Are you alright?” Arthur turned to Dagonet when he was on his feet again.

“Nothing I haven’t felt before,” Dag grinned. “I could use a hand getting this off, though.” He waved his right arm and what was left of the wooden shield strapped to it. The buckler had cracked down the center, and several chunks of it had been taken out over the course of the night.

Arthur smiled and stepped forward to undo the straps around the boy’s arm.

“Thanks,” Dag grinned, shaking out the now free limb as Arthur fastened the straps into a loop to sling over Dag’s shoulder.

After the boy had jogged off, Arthur stood and looked around the field. Most of the battle was over, although a few Woads were still fighting against his knights. Other knights and some of Ganis’s men had begun to carry the wounded back towards the fort. Arthur could see the gates open in the distance, with several guards in front of them to keep out any Woads that thought it might be a good idea to try to get inside. He sighed and started forward, reluctant to find out the cost of the battle.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Up on the Wall, Branwyr let out a sigh of relief as the wind blew the last of the fog and smoke away and the morning sun illuminated a nearly empty field beyond the Wall, occupied only by the bodies of the Woads Bran and her archers had felled. Beside her, Tristan yawned hugely, and Bran couldn’t help but laugh.

“Go on home,” she said, ruffling the boy’s dark hair. “Take Tyra and Sebille with you. Get some rest. There will still be work to do when you wake up.”

“Okay,” Tristan nodded sleepily. He headed down the Wall to fetch the girls, then the three descended the stairs down to the fort and disappeared among the low buildings.

“What about us?” Elyan’s voice sounded strained, heavy with exhaustion.

“We’ll watch for a while longer,” Bran replied, her own voice thick. “The last thing we want is for a second wave to come up over the wall as soon as we let down our guard.”

Elyan nodded and stifled a yawn as he turned to look back out over the Wall. “What about the others?”

Bran turned to look out over the battlefield beyond the fort. “There are a lot of bodies,” she said finally. “Even I can’t tell from here whose they are. We’ll find out later what happened with Father and the others.”

Elyan nodded again, leaning against the battlements as he chewed on his lip.

Bran rested a hand on his arm and met his soft blue eyes with her own dark brown. “Father’s survived this long. He’ll be alright.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about so much as Grandfather,” Elyan admitted. “He was too old to fight; I told him so, and he clocked me over the head.”

Bran grinned. “He’s fierce. I’m sure he’s fine, too. He lived through fifteen years here in Britain, and how many back in Sarmatia?”

Elyan replied with a slight smile. “You’re right. I’m sure he’s fine.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Ban, Bors the Elder, and Pellinore sat side by side on the ground near the treeline. “It’s like we never left,” Pellinore murmured, looking out over the field. Arthur’s men were picking through the bodies of the Woads and their companions, killing any surviving Woads and moving injured soldiers back to the fort.

“Almost,” Ban agreed.

“Almost?” Bors arched an eyebrow.

“Well, I don’t know about the two of you,” Ban groaned as he struggled to his feet, “but I am certainly getting far too old for this sort of thing. Best to leave it to the young ones from now on.”

Bors clambered to his feet as well, grumbling. “Who are you calling old?”

“You’re older than either of us, my friend,” Ban laughed, clapping Bors on the back.

“You were the oldest of any of us back then,” Pellinore chuckled, joining his friends on his feet. “And you were probably the oldest person on the battlefield last night.”

Bors crossed his arms and grumbled darkly, his words unintelligible. Ban laughed again and slung an arm over the old man’s shoulders. “Come. We should help search the bodies.”

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

Gawain stood still, looking across the field, searching for one figure in particular. The rain and snow had slowed to a drizzle that was little more than a mist, which kept his soaked curls plastered to his forehead, face, and neck. He had sheathed his daggers and tried to wipe the blood from his hands, to no avail. Mud mingled with the blood on his armor, and droplets of water made tracks through the stains as the mist collected on the metal and leather.

His breath left his lungs in a rush when he finally found the figure he had been searching for. Her wool hood was muddy, and her leathers were slick with blood and dirt. Her chestnut curls had escaped their braid to frame her face, but clung to the pale skin of her face. She caught sight of him a few seconds later and he saw her relax as her face smoothed into a small smile.

Gawain made his way across the field strewn with bodies, and Cymbeline likewise began to move towards him. She broke in a run before he did, and met him with a wild leap up into his arms, clasping her arms tightly around his neck in a powerful embrace; his arms wrapped around the small of her back, drawing her close. After a moment, she loosened her grip enough to move her head so that she could press her lips against his. Gawain could feel her smile as he returned the kiss, pulling her even closer to him and ignoring the ache in his right shoulder as he taxed the muscles there.

When they finally broke apart to catch their breath, Gawain shifted his grip on Cymbeline’s waist, lifting her higher so that she could hook her legs over his hips and supporting most of her weight with his left arm. She cradled his face in both hands, pushing his wet hair back before she kissed him again, then pressed her forehead to his, letting her arms drop onto his shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Gawain whispered, feeling the gash in the leather across her back.

“Hardly a scratch,” Cymbeline smiled as his fingers traced along her back. “You?”

“A bruise or two,” Gawain grinned, his hand falling back down to aid the other arm in supporting her weight.

Cymbeline leaned down and kissed him again, gently this time, her lips lingering against his. They stayed like that for long minutes, until the muscles in his arms began to tremble with the strain of supporting her, protesting at the work after the long night of fighting. She felt the tremors that began to pass through his arms and leaned back slightly. “You can let me down,” she teased, rubbing her nose against his.

“Marry me?” he asked suddenly, meeting her wide brown eyes with his own deep blue ones. He watched as her eyes widened even further in surprise, water dripping from her eyelashes to leave tracks through the mud and blood on her cheeks.

Slowly, her lips spread into a wide smile and she leaned down for another long, deep kiss. When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his again, her eyes closed as she whispered a single word: “Yes.”


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends. I started this story almost two years ago, and now it's over. It's really weird to think about, especially considering that even when I wasn't writing it, it was always in my head. I have a sequel planned, and by the time this epilogue is published, I should have started working on that (unless I've gotten wrapped up in shorts for TSWHH), and I plan to publish it by the two-year anniversary of when this story was published (but if I really have been working on it already, it may be up sooner.) Anyways, I've really enjoyed going along this story with all of you! It's definitely been a ride, and thank you for reading it along with me!

They were married in the summer, on a warm, sunny day. Cymbeline wore a simple white cotton dress, made with a great deal of help from Vanora, with her clan tartan wrapped around her hips and her long curls free in the breeze, and Gawain thought she had never been more beautiful. Their eyes never left each other for long that day.

Morgause stood to the side with her granddaughter on her hip, watching proudly as her oldest son wed the child’s mother. Beside Morgause, Pellinore stood with Lot in his arms, and Bedivere held Rhience on the other side of the small gathering. In addition to Cymbeline and Gawain’s families, all of the other knights, Vanora’s children, and Arthur and Guinevere and their sons were in attendance. Bors the Elder, looking as cranky as ever, led the ceremony in the Sarmatian tradition, with a few British twists—suggested, Morgause suspected, by Vanora and Branwyr—thrown in.

That night, in the open pavilion of the tavern, they celebrated late into the night. Once the children had been put to bed—in Morgause and Pellinore’s care—Cymbeline didn’t leave her husband’s side. For most of the evening, while Dinadan and Olwyn sang and everyone drank entirely too much wine, Cymbeline sat on Gawain’s lap, her head pillowed on his shoulder, one arm around his neck, and his arms around her waist. She was quiet as she played with his long hair, letting the thrum of his voice in his chest as he spoke and laughed with Galahad and his brothers resound through her head, lulling her into a sense of peace.

Eventually, he tucked her head under his chin and pulled her close, falling silent as the others began to drift home and Dinadan stopped singing, simply strumming gently on his harp.

“Are you sleeping?” Gawain murmured gently. Cymbeline offered a slight negative sound in response. “We should go,” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead. “Bedivere and Lucan are staying in the barracks tonight.”

“I know,” she smiled, tilting her head back to look up at him. “Your mother and Pellinore have the babies, too.”

Gawain laughed and kissed her again. “Come on,” he grinned, slipping his arm under her knees and lifting her up as he stood. Ignoring the hoots and cheers of the other knights, he carried her off, heading for the infirmary.

“You can put me down, you know,” Cymbeline giggled as Gawain struggled slightly to get up the stairs.

“I’m good,” Gawain grunted, finally making it up to the top landing.

Laughing, Cymbeline reached out and opened the door so that Gawain could maneuver them through. Once inside, Gawain kicked the door shut behind them and headed for the bedroom in the back, where he finally set Cymbeline down on the floor. While Gawain paused to kick his shoes off, Cymbeline shut the bedroom door and unwrapped the tartan from her waist, tossing it to the side.

When Gawain turned back around, Cymbeline grabbed him by the belt and pulled him close. With a smirk, he lifted her up so that she could hook her legs around his waist and wrap her arms around his shoulders. Still smiling, she leaned down and kissed him softly. Gawain took a step back, propping her up against the wall as he deepened the kiss.

Cymbeline’s hands slid down to grip his shirt and tug it up. Pressing her against the door with his hips, he raised his arms to help her pull the shirt over his head. When his arms came down, his hands went to her thighs, pushing the skirt of her dress up around her hips as their lips met again.

**.*.*.*.*.*.**

In the morning, Gawain woke first. Cymbeline was tucked up against his side, her back to him, her head pillowed on his arm. The sun streaming through the open window lit her hair on fire and played across her bare skin. He brushed his fingers over her bare shoulder and kissed her on the temple before wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him. She made a soft sound before settling there.

Gawain could feel the long line of the scar across her back where it was pressed against his chest. He knew the location of every other scar on her body and what had caused them, but this was the one that scared him the most. A fraction deeper, and he wouldn’t have found her standing that day on the field in front of the fort.

He heard the door to the main room of the apartment open and Lucan’s voice sounded through the door to the bedroom, followed by Bedivere. Shortly after, he could hear the babbling of a baby in the other room as well.

“Cym,” he whispered, shaking her gently. “Wake up.”

“Hm?” Cymbeline murmured, shifting only slightly in his arms.

“They’re back,” Gawain whispered, brushing her hair back from her face.

“What?”

“They’re back. Your cousins and the kids.”

“Oh,” Cymbeline groaned, rolling over to bury her face in his chest.

“Wake up,” Gawain laughed, shaking her again. “You need to put something on. The babies will want you.”

“Ugh,” Cymbeline groaned loudly in protest as Gawain pulled his arm out from under her and sat up. He crawled over her to get out of the bed, pausing to kiss her, then pulled on his trousers from the night before. He tossed his shirt to Cymbeline and waited for her to slip it on before opening the door.

“Good morning!” Bedivere grinned cheekily. He stood at the table with Rhience in his arms; Bella and Lot were playing on the floor with Lucan. “Did you sleep well?”

Gawain rolled his eyes before scooping Bella up into his arms and kissing her on the cheek, then tickled her, earning peals of baby giggles in response. “Did you have a good night with your grandmother?” he asked, grinning at the girl.

“According to Morgause, they all slept well,” Bedivere replied, even though the question hadn’t been directed at him. “We stopped at Vanora’s to get them breakfast before coming back here.”

Gawain glanced back into the bedroom, where Cymbeline had laid back down on the bed and presumably fallen asleep. “Come on,” he grinned at Bella. “Your mama doesn’t want to wake up today. I think she needs some help.” He took Rhience from Bedivere and carried the two babies into the bedroom, depositing on his wife’s sleeping form.

Cymbeline cracked an eye open to look at the babies crawling over her. “And who is this?” she said, faking a grumpy voice as Gawain ducked back out for Lot. When he returned, he deposited the third baby on the bed, where Cymbeline had sat up to play with Bella and Rhience.

As he watched his wife play with their children, making faces and wiggling her fingers, Gawain felt his smile broaden. He knew then, in his heart, that he had made the right choice to come back to Britain—the right choice to stay in the first place, and the right choice to go to Rome and bring Cymbeline back. Sitting next to him were the products of a thousand right choices, some of which he had found himself doubting in the past, but no longer. He caught Bella as she crawled towards the edge of the bed, before she could fall, and settled her on his knee as Cymbeline wrapped the boys up in her arms and pulled them in close. She looked up at him with a smile that matched his own, her brown eyes full of love and laughter, and he leaned forward to kiss her one last time.

“I’m happy,” she said softly as he pulled away.

“Me too,” he grinned, touching the tip of his nose to hers. He looked around at the three chattering babies and smiled again. “Me too.”

__ I'll swim and sail on savage seas,   
With ne’er a fear of drowning,   
And gladly ride the waves of life,   
If you would marry me.   
No scorching sun nor freezing cold   
Will stop me on my journey,   
If you will promise me your heart   
And love me for eternity.   
  
My dearest one, my darling dear,   
Your mighty words astound me,   
But I've no need for mighty deeds   
When I feel your arms around me.   
  
But I would bring you rings of gold,   
I'd even sing you poetry!   
And I would keep you from all harm   
If you would stay beside me   
  
I have no use for rings of gold,   
I care not for your poetry,   
I only want your hand to hold,   
I only want you near me.   
  
To love and kiss to sweetly hold,   
For the dancing and the dreaming.   
Through all life's sorrows and delights,   
I'll keep your love inside me.   
I'll swim and sail on savage seas   
With never a fear of drowning,   
And gladly ride the waves so white   
If you will marry me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. The lyrics at the end are also not mine and belong to... Dreamworks? I guess?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own King Arthur or anything you might recognize from the film. I do, however, own this story, and all of the original characters in it.


End file.
